ma] 
ty 


(CARNATION  i 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint 

And  Other  Stories 

BY 

GRACE    ELLERY    CHANNING 


CHICAGO 
STONE    &    KIMBALL 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT,   1895,  BY 
STONE     AND     KIMBALL 


LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 
TO  MY  MOTHER 


2061S29 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE    SISTER    OF    A    SAINT  3 

THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    HILL-TOP  37 

THE    LUCKY    NUMBER  83 

COULEUR    DE    ROSE  115 

A    STRANGE    DINNER-PARTY  1 85 

THE    BASKET    OF    ANITA  225 


THE   SISTER   OF   A   SAINT. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 


SUOR'  AMALIA  stood  at  the  window,  and  her 
face  was  troubled  as  she  watched  Bianca  take 
down  the  shutters  of  the  shop  window  opposite. 

"  There  has  not  been  a  soul  near  for  days," 
she  thought;  "  something  must  be  done." 

The  red-painted  posts  on  either  side  of  the 
door  had  on  them  in  gold  letters,  "  Parruchiere," 
and  there  was  a  scraggy  muslin  curtain  plaited 
within  the  one  window,  which  was  put  there 
when  the  shop  was  new.  The  door  stood  open 
to  admit  the  light  and  air,  and  through  it  she 
could  see  the  barber's  chair  and  the  brushes, 
combs,  and  razors  neatly  in  a  row. 

Suor'  Amalia  watched  Bianca  going  through 
the  daily  feint  of  arranging  where  nothing  was 
disarranged,  while  Nino  followed  her  noise- 


4  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

lessly  about,  not  to  disturb  his  father  who  was 
lying  ill  in  the  room  behind  the  shop. 

"There  is  trouble  everywhere,"  Suor'  Amalia 
was  thinking  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  win- 
dows of  the  story  above. 

Up  there  where  the  lace  curtains  were,  the 
little  sposina  lay  on  the  sofa.  At  first  she  used 
to  sit  in  the  great  chair  by  the  window,  but  now 
her  pale  face  could  just  be  seen  propped  among 
the  piled-up  cushions. 

It  was  such  a  little  while  since  the  little  sposina 
(she  is  so  small  that  two  diminutives  are  not  too 
much  for  her)  went  away.  She  was  not  eighteen : 
her  soft  hair  fell  in  short  curls  about  her  face, 
and  as  she  came  out  in  her  white  bride's  dress 
and  veil  with  orange-blossoms,  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  childish  delight.  Bianca,  from  be- 
hind the  curtain,  had  watched  her  :  the  sposina 
was  not  prettier  than  she  herself  had  been  five 
years  ago,  and  her  husband  was  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  barber.  Bianca  watched  until 
they  came  back  from  the  church  and  the  sindaco, 
and  the  sposina  went  away  to  her  new  home  in 
another  city,  wearing  a  brown  silk  travelling- 
dress  which  trailed  on  the  ground,  and  a  tall  hat 
with  ribbon  bows  which  stood  up  above  her  face 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  5 

and  made  it  look  younger  than  ever.  Now  the 
child  was  a  Signora. 

Bianca  had  kept  herself  well  hidden  behind 
the  curtain.  If  they  had  seen  her  they  would 
have  said,  "  There  is  Bianca,  who  ran  away  with 
a  married  man  and  was  never  a  sposaj  she 
would  like  to  be  the  spostna." 

The  Suor'  Amalia  had  seen,  however;  there 
was  not  much  which  escaped  her  eyes. 

On  that  day  Bianca  had  bitterly  envied  the 
sposina;  but  she  did  not  envy  her  now.  It  was 
only  six  months  before  the  child  came  home, 
looking  more  a  child  than  ever  as  her  husband 
lifted  her  out  of  the  carriage  in  his  arms.  She 
smiled  up  at  him  with  her  wan  little  face  as  he 
did  so,  for  she  loves  him,  —  or,  as  they  say  in 
Tuscany,  "  she  wishes  him  well." 

Bianca  saw  it  all  in  one  swift  glance,  and  she 
shuddered. 

"  She  wishes  him  well,  and  she  will  have  to 
go." 

She  herself  went  in  and  looked  long  at  the 
barber,  who  slept  with  a  scarlet  spot  on  each 
thin  cheek.  Would  he  also  have  to  go  ?  —  for 
they  too  wish  each  other  well. 

Every  day  she  asked  herself  that  question, 


6  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

and  every  day  she  glanced  up  at  the  sposinds 
window  as  she  took  down  the  shutters  in  the 
morning  and  put  them  up  at  night,  —  a  useless 
labor,  since  no  one  came  to  the  shop.  And 
day  by  day  she  grew  more  silent. 

"  So  many  excuses,"  she  said  only,  as  she 
glided  in  and  out  of  the  Suor'  Amalia's  back  yard 
with  water  jars  to  fill  or  pails  to  empty,  —  for 
Suor'  Amalia's  yard  stands  just  across,  and  has 
in  it  water  and  sinks  and  many  other  neighbor- 
hood conveniences.  In  some  mysterious  way, 
Suor'  Amalia's  house  and  yard  stand  just  across 
from  everywhere,  and  have  in  them  wherewith  to 
meet  everybody's  needs.  Indeed  it  is  because  of 
this  peculiarity  that  she  began  to  be  called,  at 
first  jestingly,  "  La  Suora,  — the  Sister,"  as  if  she 
were  a  nun,  and  then  "Suor'  Amalia."  Now 
even  her  husband  calls  her  so,  and  she  herself 
has  almost  forgotten  it  is  not  her  baptized 
name. 

Suor'  Amalia  has  shaken  her  head  daily  over 
Bianca,  who  grows  whiter  and  whiter.  There 
has  not  been  a  soul  in  the  shop  for  days,  Suor' 
Amalia  knows.  Why  are  windows  given  us,  if 
not  to  watch  over  our  neighbors  a  little  ? 

"  It  is  good  fortune  that  the  child  is  always 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  7 

robust,"  she  thought  constantly.  Suor'  Amalia's 
own  are  under  the  sod,  four  of  them,  and  dead 
within  a  week,  as  God  willed.  It  is  one  reason 
why  food  will  not  stay  in  Suor'  Amalia's  house. 
"  There  are  seven  of  us  to  feed,"  she  reminds 
Pietro,  when  his  eyes  open  in  wonder  that  a 
quintal  of  potatoes  and  all  the  flour  and  polenta 
can  have  gone  so  soon.  One  day  the  cupboard 
is  full,  and  the  next,  —  where  can  all  that  flour 
and  salt  fish  have  gone  ?  Suor'  Amalia  has 
always  one  answer  to  these  wonderings :  "  God 
has  found  a  use  for  it  elsewhere."  Moreover, 
she  says  she  notices  that  when  she  takes  any- 
thing from  a  sack  to  give  away,  the  sack  seems 
fuller  to  her  afterwards ;  which  does  not  explain 
to  Pietro  why  they  empty  so  fast  nevertheless. 
He  often  thinks  in  that  head  of  his,  which  is  not 
quick,  but  good  and  sound  like  his  heart,  that 
the  four  who  are  dead  eat  much  more  than  the 
three  who  are  alive,  — especially  when  one  thinks 
of  Isolina,  who  pecks  like  a  bird. 

The  Suor'  Amalia  has  been  thinking  of  Iso- 
lina very  steadily  for  days  past, —  every  time,  in 
fact,  that  she  has  looked  at  the  house  across  the 
way.  She  was  thinking  of  her  now,  as  she 
crossed  the  room  and  knocked  lightly  at  a  door, 


8  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

listening  a  moment  first  to  be  sure  that  Isolina 
was  not  praying. 

"  Isolina." 

"  Enter,"  said  a  voice,  and  Suor'  Amalia 
entered. 

"  Isolina,  I  am  troubled  about  those  two." 

Isolina  was  sitting  sewing.  She  was  dressed 
in  black,  and  there  was  a  rosebush  and  a  crucifix 
on  the  table  before  her,  and  a  little  golden  cross 
on  a  black  cord  at  her  throat.  The  Suor' 
Amalia  might  be  thirty-five,  she  looked  fifty; 
but  the  angels  of  heaven  could  not  tell  the  age 
of  Isolina.  On  the  waste  of  that  disfigured 
face  the  years  were  not  numbered.  In  reality 
she  was  but  twenty-five. 

She  did  not  ask,  "  Which  two  ?  "  instead  she 
looked  at  her  sister,  and  there  was  a  curious 
mingling  of  determination  and  dread  on  the 
Suora's  face. 

"  Not  a  soul  has  been  there,"  she  went  on, 
however,  "  and  moreover,  there  is  not  a  soul  who 
would  give  a  soldo.  It  is  hard,  —  after  all,  one 
is  human." 

Still  Isolina  said  nothing.  Suor'  Amalia 
sighed.  Isolina  took  a  few  stitches  and  her  lips 
moved  silently. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  9 

"  And  the  sposina  f  "  she  asked  quietly,  pres- 
ently. 

Suor'  Amalia  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  a  hard  thing,"  she  said,  "  they  wish 
each  other  so  well." 

Isolina  did  not  speak ;  she  took  a  few  stitches 
and  broke  off  the  thread. 

"  Here  is  the  suit  for  Giacomo's  boy,"  she 
said  abruptly. 

Suor'  Amalia  looked  approvingly  at  the 
square  patches  in  the  blue  cloth,  and  the  bright 
gilt  buttons.  Isolina  took  up  two  ragged 
blouses;  it  was  evident  that  she  balanced  a 
moment  in  her  mind  which  to  patch  into  the 
other ;  having  decided,  she  set  rapidly  about 
it.  Suor'  Amalia,  deep  in  thought,  watched 
her.  Then,  with  a  profound  sigh,  she  took  up 
the  blue  suit  and  glanced  again  with  a  certain 
wistfulness  at  her  sister. 

"  It  is  such  a  beautiful  day,  Isolina." 

Isolina  made  no  reply. 

"  And  it  is  so  bad  for  the  health  to  stay  in 
always." 

Isolina  sewed  silently. 

"What  shall  I  buy  for  dinner?" 

"  What  you  will." 


IO  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

Suor'  Amalia  turned  away  with  an  impatient 
sujh. 

The  trouble  was  still  upon  her  face  as  she 
took  up  a  basket  from  the  other  room  and  dis- 
appeared into  a  cupboard.  When  she  reap- 
peared her  face  was  flushed,  but  once  more 
tranquil,  and  it  was  evident  she  had  transferred 
the  weight  from  her  heart  to  her  basket,  which 
hung  heavily.  She  paused  irresolutely  with 
the  patched  suit  in  her  hand,  and  then  laid  it 
aside. 

"  Giacomo's  boy  had  the  last,"  she  thought, 
"  and  one  must  use  one's  own  judgment.  After 
all  it  would  be  a  hard  world  if  there  were  only 
saints  in  it." 

Her  handkerchief  was  already  on  her  head, 
and  she  had  not  even  the  trouble  of  opening 
the  door,  which  stood  already  open.  Why  shut 
one's  door  at  the  risk  of  shutting  out  some  one  ? 

Suor'  Amalia  was  right;  it  was  a  beautiful 
morning.  The  sun  came  warmly  down,  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  street  the  Mediterranean, 
blue  as  a  sapphire,  leaped  in  the  light. 

Suor'  Amalia  glanced  at  the  windows  of  the 
house  opposite  as  she  passed,  and  wished  both 
the  barber  and  the  sposina  were  out  in  the 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  1 1 

sun,  —  yes,  and  Isolina  as  well.  There  is  not 
much  resemblance  between  the  pale  sposina 
and  Isolina  to  the  outward  eye,  but  neverthe- 
less the  one  makes  her  think  of  the  other.  For 
it  is  not  so  many  years  since  Isolina  was  a 
sposina  too,  —  perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  for  her  if  she  never  had  been.  But  so 
it  was ;  the  black  gown  and  the  white  were 
made,  then  came  the  hideous  disease,  wiping 
out  beauty  and  youth  and  leaving  corruption. 
"It  might  have  been  better  if  she  had  sent  him 
away  then,  as  she  at  first  wished,"  thought 
Suor'  Amalia,  for  the  hundredth  time  re-living 
the  story ;  "  it  was  not  possible  he  could  wish 
her  well  when  she  was  become  monstrous, — 
men  were  not  like  that,"  she  had  said.  Ah, 
yes,  it  might  have  been  better  ;  but  it  is  a  hard 
thing  to  be  deaf  to  the  crying  of  the  heart. 

To  sew  and  pray,  —  that  was  all  that  re- 
mained to  Isolina  now.  She  had  wished  to 
make  herself  a  nun  when  that  happened,  but 
even  this  was  denied  her.  The  malady  which 
forbade  her  to  be  a  wife  on  earth  forbade  her 
also  to  become  a  bride  of  Heaven.  No  convent 
would  receive  her.  So  she  made  herself  a  nun 
outside  the  cloister.  And  since  she  was  too 


12  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

poor  for  other  charities,  she  had  made  for  her- 
self a  charity  of  mending  the  cast-off  garments 
of  the  poor,  for  the  still  poorer.  There  was 
nothing  so  ragged  but  Isolina  could  patch  it 
somehow  and  make  it  cover  some  one's  naked- 
ness ;  any  more  than  there  were  ever  so  many 
hungry  ones  but  that  Suor'  Amalia  could  find  at 
least  a  bit  of  polenta  for  them.  It  was  not  of 
this  household  that  it  could  ever  be  written :  — 

"  I  was  an  hungered  and  ye  fed  me  not ; 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not ;  sick  and  in 
prison,  and  ye  visited  me  not" 

Of  what  was  past,  Isolina  never  spoke.  She 
was  an  angel  of  patience,  and  surely  blessed 
were  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  in  which 
she  dwelled. 

"  If  only  she  would  go  out,  and  eat  a  little," 
thought  Suor'  Amalia.  But  these  were  pre- 
cisely what  Isolina  would  not  do,  —  go  out  on 
the  streets ;  and  for  days  at  a  time  she  scarcely 
ate  enough  to  keep  one's  soul  in  one's  body ; 
and  this  tried  Suor'  Amalia  so  sorely  that  she 
had  oftener  to  accuse  herself  to  her  confessor 
of  impatience  towards  Isolina  than  of  any 
other  sin.  The  Frate  always  said  the  same 
thing. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  13 

"  Support  your  cross  with  patience,  my 
daughter;  you  have  a  saint  in  your  home, — 
happy  for  you." 

And  Suor'  Amalia  knew  it.  All  those  fasts 
and  prayers,  —  God  alone  knew  how  much 
good  they  had  done  all  the  neighborhood  first 
and  last.  She  herself  was  not  the  least  of  a 
saint ;  one  cannot  expect  two  in  a  family,  — 
it  would  have  its  disadvantages,  she  candidly 
thought ;  but  there  was  little  which  passed 
in  the  still  spirit  of  the  younger  that  she  did 
not  divine.  She  recalled  the  morning's  con- 
versation. 

"  She  never  forgets,"  thought  Suor'  Amalia, 
with  a  sigh. 

No,  Isolina  never  forgot.  At  that  very 
moment  she  had  stolen  from  her  room,  and 
keeping  out  of  sight  herself,  glanced  stealthily 
up  at  the  sposina's  window.  The  little  white 
face  was  not  there ;  all  she  could  see  was  the 
young  husband  bending  over  something  and 
speaking.  No,  not  all,  —  for  suddenly  two 
thin  small  hands  stretched  up  and  met  about 
the  young  husband's  neck  and  drew  his  head 
lower,  lower,  lower.  Isolina  could  see  —  could 
see  through  the  walls  of  the  house  —  the 


14  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

white,  eager  face,  with  its  great  eyes  looking 
up ;  and  the  thin  hands  drew  the  stooping  head 
still  lower,  till  only  its  curls  and  the  fingers 
playing  with  them  were  visible  above  the  win- 
dow ledge.  Suddenly  they  stopped  playing. 
Isolina  closed  her  eyes ;  she  leaned  against  the 
wall ;  it  was  she  who  received  upon  her  purple 
lips  that  trembling  of  other  lips  in  the  inter- 
minable kiss  which  blots  out  life  and  death  and 
all  but  immortality.  But  they  were  not  the 
lips  of  the  young  husband.  Her  own  were  hot 
and  dry ;  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  her 
hands  went  up  to  the  purple  and  swollen  face, 
and  with  a  low  cry  she  darted  into  the  inner 
room. 

When  Suor'  Amalia  returned  she  heard  a 
voice  from  that  room,  measured  and  calm. 

"  It  is  Isolina  praying  for  the  sick,"  she  said 
to  herself  after  listening  a  moment,  and  she  set 
down  her  empty  basket  upon  the  table.  As  she 
did  so,  she  saw  through  the  window  Bianca  put- 
ting up  the  shutters,  and  added,  "  I  do  not  be- 
lieve there  has  been  a  soul  there  to-day  either." 

Juor'  Amalia  was  right  again  ;  there  had  not 
been  a  soul  there  all  day.  The  sick  man's  eyes 
turned  with  a  question  in  them  when  Bianca 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  15 

went  in;  she  shook  her  head  slightly,  and  he 
turned  his  away  that  she  might  not  see  the  tears 
of  pure  weakness.  She  did  not  need  to  see.  A 
while  ago  the  smell  of  food  cooking  made  him 
sick;  now  there  is  no  food  to  cook.  Bianca 
glanced  once  or  twice  around  the  room  desper- 
ately ;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  ticking  of  the 
little  clock  on  the  shelf.  Everything  else  had 
gone  to  the  Monte  di  Pieta  ;  all  the  clothing  not 
actually  needed  to  appear  in  on  the  street ;  all 
the  bedclothing  except  the  blankets  ;  there  was 
nothing  left  but  the  things  in  the  shop  (to  part 
with  these  would  be  suicide),  and  the  clock. 
And  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  polenta ;  he  must 
have  broth.  Bianca  went  determinedly  to  the 
clock  ;  it  had  been  spared  till  now  because  it 
would  bring  so  very  little,  and  without  it  the 
heavy  days  would  be  ten  times  longer ;  she  took 
it  down.  At  the  sudden  cessation  of  its  ticking, 
the  sick  man  turned.  He  had  no  need  to  ask 
what  she  was  doing;  there  she  stood  with  the 
clock  in  her  hands.  A  thin  scarlet  wave  ran 
over  his  cheek.  Bianca  said  nothing,  only  drew 
the  blanket  about  him  and  looked  a  moment  at 
the  wan  face  and  closed  eyes  from  under  which 
a  tear  stole.  She  wished  him  so  well,  —  but 


16  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

what  was  there  to  say?  Silently  she  went  out 
with  the  clock  under  her  shawl. 

Then  there  was  only  the  weak  sobbing  of  the 
sick  man.  He  wished  her  so  well,  —  and  it  had 
come  to  this. 

On  her  way  across  the  yard  an  hour  later, 
Bianca  found  herself  confronted  with  Suor' 
Amalia.  She  would  have  passed  with  so  many 
murmured  excuses,  but  Suor'  Amalia  barred  the 
way  with  calm  determination. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  cook 
your  meals  in  my  kitchen,"  she  said  tranquilly. 
"  Pietro  goes  out,  and  there  is  no  one  else 
about." 

Bianca  paused  with  the  water-jar  in  her  hands. 
She  was  as  white  as  her  name  and  it  seemed  to 
Suor'  Amalia  she  had  grown  thin  overnight. 
For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak,  but  regarded 
Suor'  Amalia  as  if  she  questioned  her  sanity. 

"  The  smell  must  be  bad  for  him,  —  there 
where  you  have  no  window,"  continued  the 
latter,  "  and  it  is  only  a  step.  It  is  a  pity  we 
did  not  think  of  it  sooner. 

Bianca  set  down  her  jar  suddenly. 

"Suor'  Amalia,"  she  said,  "you,  of  all  peo- 
ple —  "  She  who  has  not  wept  for  years,  weeps 
torrents. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  17 

Suor'  Amalia  said  little ;  she  had  never  seen 
that  words  were  good  for  much.  Slipping  into 
the  house,  she  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee, — 
what  one  calls  coffee,  —  and  presently,  to  her 
own  bewilderment  and  in  spite  of  the  choking 
misery  in  her  throat,  Bianca  found  herself  drink- 
ing the  Suora's  coffee  and  talking,  all  together. 
The  Suor'  Amalia  had  the  whole  story ;  years  of 
silence  overflowed  in  five  minutes'  speech.  She 
knew  of  the  loneliness,  the  need,  the  impossi- 
bility of  help  from  any  one,  how  many  days  it 
was  since  any  one  came  to  the  shop,  and  just 
how  many  soldi  the  clock  brought,  —  together 
with  the  fact  that  there  was  nothing  else  left  to 
sell,  and  the  fear  that  he  would  be  dead  soon,  and 
how,  above  all,  and  through  all  and  under  all  she 
wished  him  passionately  well,  — the  man  who  was 
her  husband  before  God,  but  not  before  man. 

"  Before  me,  too,"  said  Suor'  Amalia  firmly, 
though  a  trifle  pale  as  she  said  it.  "  Eat  that 
bread,  Bianca,  there  is  more." 

"  Suor'  Amalia,  you,  of  all  people ! "  stam- 
mered Bianca.  "  Oh,  if  you  knew  !  " 

"  Yes,  I,"  repeated  Suor'  Amalia,  firmly.  "  If 
you  had  gone  from  one  to  another,  that  would 
be  different ;  and  I  don't  say  it  was  not  a  sin  to 
2 


l8  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

begin  with ;  but  after  all  you  have  been  through 

—  it  was  a  sin,  of  course,  but  —  " 

"  He  has  always  said  all  the  trouble  came 
from  that ;  because  he  had  injured  a  saint,  and 
that  it  was  no  use  to  pray  to  any  saint  after 
that,  —  they  were  sure  to  take  her  part.  But 
Suor'  Amalia,  if  you  knew !  It  was  like  a  death 

—  and  we  wished  each  other  so  well." 

"  I  do  know,"  answered  Suor'  Amalia.  "  One 
is  human,  after  all,  and  that  other  was  perhaps 

—  a  mistake.     But  you  cannot  expect  saints  to 
look  at  these  things  as  we  do ;  it  would  be  mak- 
ing them  too  like  ourselves." 

"  If  we  could  have  stayed  away,"  said  Bianca, 
falteringly.  "  What  it  cost  to  come  back  !  but 
when  he  fell  ill  the  doctor  said  he  must  have  his 
native  air  or  die.  What  could  one  do  ?  And 
then  to  come  here  ! " 

"  Perhaps  it  was  not  all  for  nothing  that  you 
were  sent,  Bianca,"  returned  Suor'  Amalia, 
calmly,  "Who  can  tell?" 

"  Perhaps.  Do  you  know,  Suor'  Amalia  — '' 
she  broke  off  embarrassed. 

Suor'  Amalia  waited  reassuringly. 

"  I  have  thought  —  I  could  n't  help  thinking, 
if  she  is  half  a  saint,  as  they  all  say,  up  there, 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  19 

they  would  listen  to  her  prayers,  and  if  only 
she  would  ask  it,  he  might  —  "  she  clasped  her 
hands. 

"  Now  that  is  asking  too  much,  Bianca,"  said 
Suor'  Amalia,  with  mild  severity. 

"  But  if  she  loved  him  — "  persisted  the 
woman,  desperately. 

"She  might  pray  for  his  soul  —  for  she  is  a 
saint,"  answered  Suor'  Amalia,  "  but  as  for  any- 
thing more,  —  you  are  asking  her  to  be  a  sinner." 

"  It  is  true,"  murmured  Bianca,  dejectedly. 

"  But  one  must  have  courage,"  said  Suor' 
Amalia,  cheeringly,  "  and  one  must  think  a 
little;  that  is  what  we  who  are  not  saints  are 
put  here  for,  —  to  help  a  little.  Meantime,  a 
cup  of  coffee  for  him,  though  coffee  is  not  good 
perhaps  for  fever,  —  but  once  in  a  way ;  and 
the  boy  had  best  come  for  a  mouthful." 

She  had  no  more  to  say,  but  —  there  is  so 
gigantic  a  difference  between  a  full  heart  and 
one  that  has  overflowed  —  as  Bianca  takes  up 
the  water-jar  again,  it  seems  lighter,  notwith- 
standing that  it  is  fresh  filled. 

"  Some  one  will  come  perhaps  this  very  day," 
said  Suor'  Amalia,  encouragingly ;  "  if  not,  one 
must  think  a  little." 


2O  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

For  Suor'  Amalia  does  nothing  hastily ;  she 
has  lived  too  long. 

"  What  is  that  baggage  doing  in  your  house, 
Suora  ?  "  asked  a  sharp  voice. 

Suor'  Amalia  turned.  Zia  Anna  was  large 
and  fat,  -with  red  face  and  square  shoulders. 
She  looked  after  Bianca  with  a  frown. 

Suor'  Amalia  answered  placidly  :  — 

"  No  matter  what,  Anna,  —  she  does  not 
trouble  you,  and  the  man  is  sick." 

"  Well,  if  I  had  not  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes 
I  would  never  have  believed  it !  With  that 
saint  in  there  !  —  and  you  an  honest  woman,  — 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Suor'  Amalia.  She 
should  never  cross  my  threshold." 

"  I  should  be  very  contented  if  there  were  no 
worse  than  she,"  replied  the  Suora,  and  her 
face  was  severe. 

"  No  worse ! "  repeated  Anna,  her  red  cheeks 
growing  redder.  "  I  should  like  to  know  what 
is  worse.  Running  away  with  a  married  man ! 
—  she  has  got  only  what  she  deserves,  —  and 
when  one  thinks  of  that  saint —  But  it's  no 
use  talking  to  you,  Suor*  Amalia ;  you  would 
feed  the  diavolo  himself  if  he  came  to  you 
hungry." 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  21 

"  Poverino  !  —  why  not  ?  "  said  Suor'  Amalia, 
tranquilly,  "  To  be  hungry  makes  many  diavo- 
lint,  Anna." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that  — "  Anna  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  But  I  must  be  going.  There 's 
the  wash  all  standing,  —  and  with  eight  fem- 
inine things  and  not  a  masculine  one  among 
them,  one  imagines  if  I  have  time  for  gossip- 
ing. Here  is  that  bit  for  Maso's  family,  —  not 
much,  but  each  gives  what  he  can,  a  centesimo 
here  and  a  soldo  there,  and  the  shoemaker  put 
in  a  whole  franc." 

Suor'  Amalia's  face  softened  as  she  held 
the  coppers  in  her  hand. 

"  You  are  a  good  soul,  Anna,  —  and  I  'm 
afraid  it  goes  hard  to  give  it  ?" 

Anna  laughed  and  shrugged  her  fat  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Altro  !  Suor'  Amalia,  —  if  one  only  gave 
when  it  was  easy,  there  'd  not  be  much  giving. 
One  does  what  one  can,  —  for  honest  folk;  I  'd 
not  take  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth  for  that 
one "  —  with  a  backward  nod  towards  the 
barber's  shop.  "  Luigino  has  two  days'  work 
every  week  now,  and  not  a  sick  one  in  our  ten. 
A  riverderla,  Suor'  Amalia." 


22  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

Suor"  Amalia's  face  was  very  thoughtful  as 
she  counted  the  coppers;  it  did  not  lose  its 
tranquillity  however.  She  shut  the  money  up 
in  a  drawer. 

"Anna's  heart  is  better  than  her  head," 
she  thought,  as  she  listened  to  hear  if  Isolina 
was  praying,  —  but  there  was  no  sound  from 
within. 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  say  anything 
about  it  at  present,"  she  decided. 

It  was  late  that  afternoon  when  Suor' 
Amalia,  having  "thought  a  little,"  stepped 
across  the  yard.  The  door  opposite  was  ajar 
to  let  in  air  and  light,  and  Bianca  sat  within  on 
the  earth  floor.  The  barber  lay,  as  he  had 
lain  all  day,  with  his  eyes  on  the  inner  door, 
listening  to  every  foot  that  passed.  Sometimes 
one  stopped  and  his  heart  gave  a  leap,  —  would 
they  come  in  ?  But  they  never  did,  and  his 
cheek  grew  hotter  and  hotter  as  the  hours 
passed.  Now  and  then  at  some  sharper  sound 
his  eyes  turned  with  their  eternal  question  to 
Bianca,  who  shook  her  head  slightly  in  reply. 
There  was  nothing  to  break  the  silence  except 
those  passing  feet,  —  now  that  the  clock  was 
eaten ;  and  he  no  longer  asked  the  time,  lest  he 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  23 

should  seem  to  be  thinking  of  dinner  or  supper. 
Bianca  sat  absolutely  impassive  with  fixed  lips. 
Through  the  open  door  she  could  see  a  boy 
with  a  basket  of  oranges,  crossing  the  yard. 
They  were  for  the  sposinaj  she  could  have 
oranges,  —  anything  she  wished.  Bianca's  pale 
lips  folded  sternly  together ;  for  a  second  time 
she  envied,  bitterly  envied,  the  sposina. 

" The  next  piano"  she  said  sharply  to  the 
boy,  as  she  rose  to  let  Suor'  Amalia  in. 

Suor'  Amalia  affected  to  notice  nothing ;  she 
went  at  once  to  the  sick  man. 

"  Well,  Luigi  ?  "  she  said  cheerfully. 

He  tried  vainly  for  a  word ;  instead  his  lips 
trembled  and  his  eyes  filled. 

"  It  is  a  little  broth  that  is  needed,"  said 
Suor'  Amalia,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  —  "  that 
will  set  you  right  quickly." 

Bianca  looked  at  her. 

"There  will  be  no  trouble  about  it,"  replied 
Suor'  Amalia,  nodding  calmly.  "  Somebody  who 
wishes  you  well  is  sending  you  a  little  money  ; 
it  is  not  myself,  Bianca,  you  need  not  look 
at  me  like  that.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  name, 
but  it  is  some  one  who  wishes  you  well.  You 
shall  have  it  in  the  morning ;  meanwhile  I  will 


24  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

send  a  bit  of  broth ;  you  see,  one  should  keep 
one's  courage." 

"  Suor'  Amalia,  —  you,  of  all  people  ! "  stam- 
mered the  sick  man. 

But  Bianca  was  looking  at  Suor'  Amalia 
with  the  strangest  expression ;  it  was  impossible 
to  evade  that  glance,  —  the  Suor'  Amalia 
looked  calmly  back. 

"Suor'  Amalia,  do  you  mean  that  here  — 
in  this  town  —  is  some  one  willing  to  lend  us 
this  money  ?  " 

"  Securely  ! "  replied  Suor'  Amalia,  mildly ; 
"  only  it  is  not  a  loan,  it  does  not  have  to  be 
paid  back.  There  is  not  much,  but  with  a  little 
broth  and  meat  he  will  do  very  well,  —  and  it  is 
almost  summer." 

Suddenly  Bianca  bent  over  the  bed.  "  Do 
you  hear  ?  to-morrow  you  can  eat  what  you  will." 

A  desire  long  repressed  burnt  in  the  sick 
man's  eyes. 

"If  it  were  not  too  dear,  a  little  bit  of 
chicken ! "  Every  day  he  had  imagined  how 
that  would  taste.  His  eyes  and  Bianca's  met ; 
then  she  raised  hers  to  Suor'  Amalia's. 

"  So  many  thanks !  "  she  said  briefly ;  but  Suor' 
Amalia  was  content. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  25 

"  Maso  is  doing  very  well  now,"  she  thought 
to  herself  deliberately,  as  she  recrossed  the  yard, 
"  and  Anna  has  not  so  much  sense  as  some ; 
one  must  be  wise  for  those  who  are  foolish ; 
besides,  it  will  all  be  counted  up  to  them  some 
day." 

As  she  moved  about  the  house  with  an  even 
step,  preparing  polenta  for  supper,  she  reflected 
with  calm  satisfaction  that  it  was  not  many  days 
before  confession. 

"  And  one  must  do  what  one  can  in  season ;  a 
little  thing  turns  the  scale." 

When  everything  was  prepared,  she  went  to 
the  drawer  to  count  out  the  money  ;  seven  francs 
and  thirty  centesimi,  if  she  remembered  right. 
She  thrust  her  hand  under  the  kerchief  and  into 
the  toe  of  Pietro's  sock,  where  she  had  put  it, 
the  money  was  gone  ! 

Suor'  Amalia  could  not  believe  it :  she  looked 
again  in  that  corner,  then  in  the  other ;  she 
rummaged  through  the  whole  drawer  ;  but  a  pile 
of  coppers  is  not  something  you  can  overlook, 
and  the  money  was  certainly  gone. 

The  Suor'  Amalia  was  appalled.  There  was 
nobody  about ;  who  could  have  found  and  taken 
it?  She  started  to  tell  Isolina,  but  stopped, 


26  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

reflecting  that  she  had  never  told  her  of  the 
money  at  all,  and  there  was  a  certain  awkward- 
ness involved  in  the  explanation.  Evidently  she 
must  carry  the  burden  alone;  but  what  could 
she  say  to  Bianca  ? 

"  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow,"  thought  Suor' 
Amalia,  her  natural  calmness  beginning  to  re- 
assert itself.  "  Without  hands  it  could  not  have 
happened,  and  I  will  think  a  little." 

But  although  she  thought  the  greater  part  of 
the  night,  she  was  no  better  off  in  the  morning ; 
the  money  was  just  as  much  gone  as  the  day 
before,  and  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  and  slow 
step  that  she  crossed  the  yard  to  the  other 
house. 

Bianca  ran  to  meet  her,  and  Suor'  Amalia's 
heart  sank  lower  still  at  the  change  one  night  of 
hope  had  wrought. 

"  Suor'  Amalia,"  Bianca  began,  the  moment 
she  was  near  enough  to  speak,  '*  how  can  I 
thank  you !  The  good  it  has  done  him  already, 
—  just  knowing  it  is  there  to  spend !  And  I  am 
going  now  to  get  the  chicken.  Come  and  see 
how  much  better  he  is  ;  he  will  not  let  it  out  of 
his  sight."  She  was  dragging  Suor'  Amalia  in, 
as  she  poured  out  the  words. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  27 

"What  do  you  mean,  Bianca?"  gasped  the 
Suora. 

"  The  money,  oh,  it  has  done  us  so  much 
good!  just  see  how  much  better  he  is  already." 
As  she  spoke  she  had  dragged  Suor'  Amalia 
to  the  bed,  and  Suor'  Amalia  gasped  again. 
There  lay  the  barber,  propped  on  the  pillow,  his 
thin  hand  playing  with  a  pile  of  coppers  at  the 
side. 

"  There  they  have  been  ever  since  we  found 
them  this  morning,"  said  Bianca.  "  Just  to  feel 
them  gives  him  strength,  he  says." 

"  How  much  is  there  there  ?  "  asked  Suor' 
Amalia,  faintly. 

"  Seven  francs  and  thirty  centesimi,  —  it  is  all 
right,  is  it  not  ?  " 

Suor'  Amalia  nodded  speechlessly. 

"It  was  Nino  who  picked  it  up,  the  first  thing 
this  morning,  just  inside  the  door ;  who  would 
think  money  could  look  so  good,  Suor'  Amalia, 
—  just  to  look  at?" 

Suor'  Amalia  drew  a  long  breath.  "  You  had 
better  take  some  of  it  and  buy  that  chicken, 
Bianca,"  she  said,  turning  to  go.  "  And  you  see 
one  should  have  faith,"  she  added  reproach- 
fully. 


28  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

"  I  will  certainly  see  the  Frate,"  she  thought, 
crossing  herself  as  she  retraced  her  steps. 
"  There  is  no  living  soul  who  could  have  done  it. 
And  I  who  said,  '  without  hands  it  could  not 
have  happened ' !  Who  knows  if  it  is  not  a 
lesson  for  me  ?  But  one  thing  is  certain  —  He 
means  me  to  help  those  two ;  that  I  am  sure 
of." 

Suor'  Amalia  was  not  a  person  to  rest  when  a 
duty  had  been  pointed  out  so  clearly.  She 
thought  of  it  all  day  long,  and  the  result  was  she 
told  Pietro  his  hair  was  too  long  for  a  Christian, 
and  sent  him  to  have  it  shortened  over  opposite ; 
and  then,  having  gotten  him  well  out  of  the 
way,  and  listened  to  make  sure  that  Isolina  was 
praying,  she  went  surreptitiously  to  the  closet  to 
take  down  the  blue  suit  with  gilt  buttons.  The 
next  moment  she  stepped  out  again  with  an 
exclamation  of  dismay,  —the  suit,  gilt  buttons 
and  all,  was  gone  ! 

Suor'  Amalia  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  crossed 
herself  repeatedly. 

"  God  is  working  his  miracles,"  she  thought. 
"  And  I  who  had  so  little  faith !" 

41  Suor'  Amalia,"  said  a  voice. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Suor'  Amalia,  crossing  her- 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  29 

self  again,  with  a  dim  expectation  of  a  divine 
messenger. 

It  was  only  Bianca,  her  face  so  full  of  light 
that  she  might  almost  pass  for  the  messenger. 

"  He  is  so  much  better ;  the  meat  has  put  new 
heart  into  him,  and  spending  carefully,  the  francs 
will  last  several  days."  She  set  her  jar  upon 
the  table,  and  resting  both  hands  on  it  looked 
squarely  into  the  Suora's  eyes. 

"  Suor5  Amalia,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  who 
it  is  in  this  town  —  besides  yourself  —  who 
wishes  us  so  well?  If  you  knew  what  it  is, 
after  living  all  these  years !  The  meat  may 
make  him  well,  but' the  other  —  it  is  more  than 
bread  and  meat  to  me.  You  don't  know,  Suor' 
Amalia  —  " 

Suor'  Amalia  shook  her  head. 

"  I  cannot  do  that,  Bianca ;  you  must  be  con- 
tent as  it  is." 

Bianca  took  up  her  jar  again,  then  another 
change  swept  over  her  face. 

"  And  the  little  suit,  Suor'  Amalia,  — you  put 
it  there,  too,  did  n't  you  ?  If  you  could  see 
Nino  in  it ! " 

"  The  blue  suit  with  gilt  buttons  ? "  faltered 
Suor' 


30  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

"  Ah,  how  much  it  is  beautiful  with  those 
little  gilt  buttons  !  "  exclaimed  Bianca,"  —  and  as 
good  as  new.  And  Nino  in  it  —  " 

Suor'  Amalia  felt  the  room  go  round  her. 

"  And  I  who  had  so  little  faith ! "  she  thought. 

Bianca  took  up  her  jar  again  and  got  as  far 
as  the  threshold  ;  there  she  turned. 

"Do  you  know,  Suor'  Amalia,  I  have  the 
idea  that  some  one  will  come  to  the  shop 
to-morrow." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  answered  Suor'  Amalia,  simply. 

But  there  was  still  something  on  Bianca's 
mind ;  after  a  moment  she  spoke  it. 

"  She,"  with  a  motion  to  the  sposina's  win- 
dow, "  is  much  worse  to-day ;  I  heard  them  say 
so.  They  wish  each  other  so  well,  and  she  is 
going."  Her  deep  eyes  gazed  into  the  Suora's. 
"  Only  yesterday  I  envied  her  the  oranges,"  she 
finished,  turning  away. 

When  she  was  quite  gone,  Suor'  Amalia 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  once  more. 

"Now  I  shall  have  to  see  the  Frate,"  she 
thought.  She  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  then 
sturdily  took  up  the  dish-cloth  again. 

"He  knows  I  have  never  had  time  to  be  a 
saint,  like  the  I  soli n a ;  and  one  must  risk  a 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  31 

little  for  one's  neighbors  now  and  then.  It  has 
done  her  so  much  good." 

"The  little  one  is  worse,  Isolina,"  she  said, 
opening  the  door  after  knocking.  As  she 
spoke,  her  glance  fell  upon  a  rose  in  the  glass 
before  the  Madonna's  image.  The  rose-bush 
had  blossomed,  then,  and  Isolina  had  offered 
the  rose,  —  for  what?  For  the  little  sposina 
without  doubt,  thought  the  Suora,  tenderly. 
Isolina  received  the  information  with  her  usual 
silence,  but  later,  when  the  Suor'  Amalia  had 
gone  back  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  watch 
the  distracted  coming  and  going  across  the 
way,  the  noise  of  a  match  fell  on  her  ear.  She 
listened  wonderingly ;  could  it  be  —  yes,  Isolina 
was  lighting  a  wax  candle  to  the  Madonna. 

"  It  is  an  expense,"  thought  Suor'  Amalia, 
"but  Madonna  bless  it  to  her  nevertheless." 

And  she  thought  reverently  that  the  Frate 
was  right ;  well  might  miracles  happen  in  the 
house  which  sheltered  a  saint. 

But  no  candle,  —  not  two,  nor  twenty  candles 
could  save  the  little  sposina  now.  Love  itself 
could  not;  the  arms  that  cling  and  the  lips 
that  kiss  again  and  again  between  prayers  of 
agony  could  not;  the  priests  with  all  their 
paraphernalia,  when  they  came,  could  not. 


32  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

Tears  ran  down  Suor'  Amalia's  face. 

"It  is  all  over,"  she  thought,  and  the  tears 
ran  fast.  She  moved  to  the  bureau  and  fum- 
bled for  a  handkerchief  to  wipe  them  away. 
There  is  so  much  love  in  the  world,  and  she 
had  never  seen  that  any  of  it  can  keep  death 
one  little  moment  away.  "  Life  is  hard,  —  one 
has  need  of  much  faith,"  she  thought. 

And  even  as  she  thought  it,  her  fumbling 
hands  closed  upon  its  Symbol.  Surprised  she 
drew  it  forth  and  gazed  at  it  through  her  tears 
with  growing  wonder.  What  had  the  little 
golden  cross  of  Isolina  to  do  in  her  drawer,  — 
the  cross  which  Isolina  was  never  without,  — 
the  cross  of  Isolina  who  never  left  the  inner 
room? 

It  was  certainly  hers,  caught  securely  in  the 
end  of  an  old  sock  of  Pietro's,  —  the  very  sock 
in  fact,  in  which  Suor'  Amalia  put  the  money 
the  other  —  Ah  ! 

The  light  which  fell  upon  Suor'  Amalia  be- 
wildered for  a  moment,  then  it  cleared  her 
entire  world.  Tears,  no  longer  for  the  sposina, 
rained  down  upon  the  golden  cross.  She  knew 
now  how  it  was  that  miracles  happened  when 
one  had  a  saint  in  the  house. 


The  Sister  of  a  Saint.  33 

"  It  is  all  over,  Suor'  Amalia,"  said  some  one, 
and  Suor'  Amalia  turned,  still  holding  Isolina's 
cross  shut  fast  in  her  hand.  There  were  tears 
in  Bianca's  eyes,  and  across  the  yard  Suor' 
Amalia  could  hear  the  soft  tone  of  Nino  sing- 
ing, mingled  with  a  noise  of  weeping. 

"It  is  for  the  little  sposina"  said  Bianca, 
"  and  only  yesterday  I  envied  her  !  " 

Suor'  Amalia  stood  at  the  window  and  looked 
out.  Through  the  cracks  of  the  shutter,  she 
could  see  the  light  of  the  barber's  candle. 
Upstairs  the  house  was  dark  except  for  one 
window,  through  which  streamed  the  blaze  of 
seven  tall  candles.  Those  were  the  little 
sposinds  candles,  and  the  little  sposina  in  her 
marriage  robe  and  lace  lay  in  the  midst,  with 
orange  blossoms  on  her  breast. 

"  She  who  had  everything  is  taken,"  said 
Bianca,  "  and  he  — " 

"  Because,"  said  Suor'  Amalia,  in  a  tone  so 
thrilled  with  feeling  that  Bianca  looked  at  her 
with  awe,  "  a  saint  interceded  for  him." 

Bianca  felt  herself  tremble  before  the  strange 
tone  in  Suor'  Amalia's  voice. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  know,"  continued 
Suor'  Amalia, still  in  that  strange  tone,  "but 


34  The  Sister  of  a  Saint. 

you  have  reason  to  live  well,  —  you  two,  and 
to  bring  up  the  child  in  the  fear  of  God;  for 
this  I  tell  you,  Bianca,  —  he  has  had  the 
prayers  of  a  saint !  " 

The  tears  ran  down  her  face  again,  and 
Bianca  fell  on  her  knees. 

"Suor'  Amalia  — ?" 

"  Suor'  Amalia  raised  her  hand  for  silence. 
In  the  next  room  some  one  was  speaking. 

"  Requiem  ceternam  dona  ets,  Domine,  et  lux 
perpetua  lucent  eis" 

It  was  Isolina  praying  for  the  dead. 

The  two  women  crossed  themselves. 

"Requiem  ceternam  dona  eis,  Domine — " 
came  the  voice  again. 

"Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ets!'1  responded 
Bianca. 

And  Suor'  Amalia  thought  how  one  day 
Isolina — even  Isolina  —  would  arise,  beautiful 
as  the  sposina,  into  the  eternal  light. 

"  For  it  is  sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  in 

incorruption ;  it  is  sown  in  dishonor,  it  is  raised 

in  glory ;   it  is  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised 

in  power." 

And  a  third  time  her  voice  rose  with  theirs  :  — 

"Requiem  ceternam  dona  eis,  Domine j  et 
lux  perpetua  luceat  eis  !  " 


THE 

HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP. 


THE 

House  on    the    Hill-Top  : 

A  Tale  of  Modern  Etruria. 


GIULIA,  bent  over  her  machine,  pulled  the 
threads  with  flying  fingers.  Outside,  the  sun 
beat  straight  down  on  the  stone  steps  and  the 
stones  of  the  little  court  in  which  the  steep  road 
ended.  "Sole  di  Maggio"  murmured  the 
peasants  going  up  and  down  the  hill,  in  the 
same  tone  of  warning  with  which  they  had 
said  "  Sole  cTAprile "  a  month  before,  and 
would  say  "  Sole  di  Jugnio  "  a  month  later. 

It  was  not  jet  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
but  Giulia  had  long  ago  eaten  her  wedge 
of  black  bread  which  Assunta  cut  from  the 
huge  loaf  for  all  of  them,  —  'Tonio,  Delia, 
Gemma,  and  herself,  —  and  ever  since  her  fin- 
gers had  flown  without  pausing.  She  had  not 


38       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

stopped  to  look  up  when  Gemma,  coughing  and 
shivering  in  the  hot  sunshine,  passed  her  on  her 
way  to  the  fabbrica;  nor,  when  'Tonio,  bent 
double  with  rheumatism,  limped  painfully  down 
the  hill.  The  little  household  worked  always, 
but  now-a-days  Giulia  was  the  most  industrious 
of  them  all,  and  had  her  frame  drawn  to  the 
doorway  to  catch  the  light  and  busily  clicking 
before  even  Delia  sat  down  to  the  pile  of  straw 
which  daily  she  converted  into  fans.  Poor 
stupid  Delia,  who  had  had  "  fear  of  a  dog  "  once 
in  her  youth,  and  fallen,  and  now  was  only  good 
to  be  the  household  drudge  and  make  fans  all 
day  long  and  every  day.  Her  highest  ambition 
was  to  make  twenty  fans  daily,  —  those  large, 
round  fans,  which  shut  between  two  slender 
sticks,  and  have  a  rosette  on  either  side.  Some- 
times she  made  only  fifteen,  but  these  were  bad 
days. 

Giulia  wove  the  braided  patterns  for  straw 
hats,  and  Gemma,  at  the  factory,  made  baskets, 
which  the  fine  ladies  who  came  up  to  Fiesole 
from  Florence  carried  away  on  their  arms.  The 
father,  'Tonio,  worked  at  carpentering,  but  he 
had  been  so  long  ill  with  rheumatism  that  he 
worked  less ;  and  never  had  there  been  so  hard 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        39 

a  winter,  and  never  so  little  money  as  just  now 
when  there  was  such  special  need  of  it. 

So  Giulia's  fingers  flew,  and  she  sat  patiently 
all  day  at  her  frame.  Delia  no  longer  had  to 
find  fault  with  her  waywardness,  or  scold  her  for 
running  out  into  the  bright  sunshine  the  moment 
her  back  was  turned,  to  jump  about  with  Fuffi 
from  sheer  gayety.  Fuffi  disconsolately  lay  at 
her  feet,  or  jumped  by  himself  ;  for  was  she  not 
about  to  "  finish  her  thirteenth  year,"  —  as  they 
say  in  Tuscany,  when  they  mean  one  will  be 
fourteen  years  old,  —  and  was  she  not  to  take 
her  First  Communion  in  three  weeks  in  the 
cathedral  together  with  eleven  other  girls  and 
sixteen  boys  ?  Assuredly ;  and  there  was  crying 
need  of  whole  francs  to  be  expended  upon  the 
dress  and  veil,  without  which  she  would  never 
feel  that  she  had  properly  been  confirmed  at  all. 
For  there  are  two  indispensable,  inexorable 
needs  in  a  Tuscan  maiden's  life,  —  a  white  gown 
and  veil  for  the  prima  communione,  and  a  black 
gown  for  marriage.  Everybody  does  n't  marry, 
but  everybody  —  at  least,  if  he  be  not  an  actual 
heathen  —  is  confirmed  at  some  time. 

But  when  one  has  so  much  work  to  live,  there 
is  so  little,  little,  to  buy  white  gowns  and  veils 


4O        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

with.  The  whole  family  had  worked  and 
planned  willingly  all  winter  that  the  bambina 
might  not  be  disappointed,  but  the  bambina  her- 
self must  do  her  share. 

Presently  the  mother  came  out,  her  black 
handkerchief  with  green  strawberries  stamped 
on  it  knotted,  Tuscan  fashion,  about  her  plain, 
homely,  energetic  face,  a  clean  blue  apron  tied 
about  her  waist,  the  faded  purple  skirt  showing 
below,  and  the  dingy  plaid  waist  above. 

Assunta  was  in  a  hurry,  as  she  always  was,  — 
a  Tuscan  hurry,  which  is  quite  a  different  thing 
from  a  New  England  hurry,  and  has  in  it  a 
good  deal  of  aimless  hither-and-thither  running, 
and  rapid  idling  with  one's  neighbor,  compen- 
sated by  more  hasty  rushing  afterward.  She 
stopped  a  moment,  however,  on  her  way  for  the 
Signorina's  cream  and  butter,  to  look  at  Giulia's 
braid,  and  caution  Delia  against  cutting  too 
much  bread  for  lunch  —  Assunta  herself  never 
lunched.  She  patted  Giulia's  shoulder. 

"  Work,  work  always,  bambina,  and  who 
knows  — "  She  finished  with  a  smile  and  a 
nod. 

Pretty  Giulia  started  up  and  threw  her  arms 
about  her  mother  eagerly. 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        41 

"  Oh,  mamina  \  do  you  think  I  can  have  the 
ribbon  ?  " 

"  Who  knows,  chi  lo  sa  f  "  replied  Assunta, 
with  mingled  doubt  and  hope.  Oh,  how  much 
she  had  thought  about  that  ribbon  herself  ! 

"  Chi  lo  sa  ?  "  she  said  again,  hopefully. 

At  that  moment  Tesita  came  by  —  Tesita,  on 
her  way  to  Piazza  San  Domenico  with  her  blind 
and  one-armed  father,  there  to  beg  of  all  the 
strangers.  Just  so  they  went  by  every  day  of 
the  year,  —  Tesita  a  little  more  ragged  and  dirty 
each  day ;  and  every  day  in  the  year  Assunta 
eyed  them  with  the  same  disfavor.  Every  day 
also  Tesita  and  Giulia  looked  at  each  other. 
Giulia  had  been  forbidden  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  her  former  playmate  since  Beppe  lost 
his  sight  at  the  burning  of  the  car-factory  and 
Tesita  had  become  a  street-beggar  —  a  "  niente 
di  buona?  Assunta  said,  with  grieved  indigna- 
tion. She  was  sorry  for  the  povero,  yes;  but 
bring  up  a  girl  on  the  streets  !  —  why  did  n't 
they  teach  her  to  weave  straw  instead  ?  A  girl 
who  lives  on  the  streets  soon  will  not  work,  and 
when  a  girl  will  not  work,  what  happens? 
"  Niente  di  buona — no  good."  She  knew  very 
well,  however,  why  they  did  n't  teach  her  to 


42       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

make  straw !  He  who  begs  makes  three  soldi, 
while  he  who  works  makes  one  !  Assunta  drew 
her  lips  together  scornfully.  Some  people  will 
do  anything  for  money  —  yes,  even  sell  their 
souls ! 

So  Giulia  and  Tesita  only  eyed  each  other 
in  silence  each  day.  To-day  Giulia  sat  up 
straighten 

"Wait  until  she  sees  my  white  gown  and 
veil !  "  she  thought,  her  heart  already  swelling 
with  pride. 

Tesita  wrinkled  her  small  nose  scornfully. 
As  if  every  one  in  all  Fiesole  had  not  known 
for  weeks  that  Assunta's  Giulia  was  to  make 
her  first  communion  ! 

"  Huh  ! "  thought  Tesita  in  her  sinful  little 
soul,  "  she  thinks  she  's  very  big  because  she  's 
going  to  wear  a  veil !  and  work,  work,  work  all 
day  for  it !  My  Babbo  could  give  me  two 
veils  if  it  pleased  him.  She  need  n't  be  so 
proud;  wasn't  my  Babbo  a  Sant'  Apostolo 
only  last  Holy  Thursday?"  A  cloud  passed 
over  her  impudently  gay  small  face  as  she  said 
it.  For  had  not  the  priest  taken  that  very 
proud  occasion,  when  he  paid  the  five  francs 
to  each  holy  apostle,  to  look  hard  at  her, 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        43 

(though  she  made  herself  as  small  as  never 
was,  behind  the  apostle's  robe),  and  to  say  that 
she  was  really  quite  too  large  to  be  always  on 
the  street,  and  Beppe  should  begin  to  think  of 
sending  her  for  holy  instruction,  and  confirming 
her ;  it  was  ill  for  a  ragazza  to  run  the  streets 
at  her  age  ?  And  Beppe,  still  under  the  in- 
fluence of  his  apostolic  dignity  and  the  clean 
stockings  and  linen  robe  he  had  worn  for  the 
occasion,  —  perhaps  of  the  five  francs  too,  —  had 
talked  seriously  of  taking  rosy,  blue-eyed 
Annina  with  him  in  future.  Tesita  had  had 
all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  change  his  mind ; 
she  had  had  to  remind  him  how  beautifully  she 
talked  to  the  strangers,  and  how  cleverly  she 
arranged  him  on  his  knees  in  piteous  pos- 
tures, for  Festas,  before  Beppe  had  relented 
and  decided  to  risk  the  Father's  displeasure 
yet  a  little  longer.  Since  then  Tesita  had 
grown  adroit  in  whisking  Beppe  round  a  corner 
whenever  a  black  gown  came  in  sight,  —  not  a 
difficult  task  to  escape  the  easy-going,  rotund 
Father. 

Still,  the  evil  day  loomed  in  the  future,  and 
darkened  Tesita's  horizon  at  moments  —  when 
she  saw  Giulia  especially.  To  leave  off  beg- 


44       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

ging  meant  work  —  work,  abhorred  of  Tesita's 
very  soul,  as  only  a  creature  of  her  untram- 
melled life  could  abhor  it.  True,  it  rained  half 
the  year  at  Fiesole,  and  the  other  half  it  blis- 
tered beneath  the  sun ;  and  in  rain  and  sun 
alike  the  wind  blew,  either  whirling  white  dust 
in  clouds,  or  driving  sleet  down  one's  throat 
and  through  one's  clothes ;  but  never  mind ! 
how  far  preferable  one's  freedom,  even  so.  To 
sit  on  stone  walls,  to  curl  up  on  the  pavements 
or  in  the  dust  itself,  and  listen  to  the  cabmen 
and  contadini  swearing  and  talking  volubly; 
to  thrust  out  one's  hand  at  the  Forestieri,  and 
rehearse  one's  plea :  "  Signare,  un  poverino  ! 
Signorina,  un  povero  vecchietto  /  "  before  lame 
Ghigo  or  armless  Gigi  could  get  in  a  word,  — 
these  were  simple  pleasures,  but  sufficing. 
Giulia,  with  her  veils  and  her  white  gowns  and 
her  straw-work  and  her  industry,  made  the 
soul  of  Tesita  sick!  She  grunted  audibly  as 
she  led  Beppe  by,  and  Assunta  watched  her 
with  that  compression  of  the  lips  which  means 
disapproval,  and  said,  as  usual,  "  Niente  di 
buonaJ"  as  she  hurried  after  the  Signorina's 
cream. 

The  stones  of  the  road  almost  fitted  them- 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        45 

selves  automatically  to  Assunta's  feet,  she  had 
trodden  them  so  often.  Twenty-three  years! 
Ever  since  she  and  'Tonio  went  to  housekeep- 
ing in  that  house  on  the  utmost  peak  of  Fie- 
sole,  —  a  peak  which  embraced  in  vision  all  Val 
d'Arno  and  its  watching  mountains,  and  which 
now  and  then  an  enterprising  tourist  climbed 
to,  for  the  view,  and  boasted  of  for  weeks  after. 
Assunta  did  not  boast,  however  many  times 
she  plodded  up  and  down  daily.  It  had  good 
air,  "buon  aria"  she  was  fond  of  saying,  and 
a  " bella  vista;"  for  Italian  eyes  can  no  more 
help  being  conscious  of  beauty  than  other  eyes 
of  bread  and  meat  before  them.  But  now-a- 
days  Assunta  concerned  herself  little  with  the 
view.  As  she  hastened  down  the  hill  she  was 
busy  calculating,  —  she  had  been  calculating 
for  months  past. 

"  Say  so  many  lire  for  the  waist,  so  many  more 
for  the  skirt;  say  three  lire  for  the  making  (the 
sarta  said  four,  but  that  might  be  cut  down  to 
three) ;  a  lire  for  buttons  and  the  like ;  four 
lire.  Then  stockings,  and  boots,  and  the  veil, 
also  ribbon."  The  folds  in  her  forehead  deep- 
ened at  each  item.  "  Also  the  fornaio  must  be 
paid  this  week,  he  said,  for  his  daughter  too 
makes  her  communion." 


46        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

Assunta  sighed;  but  for  all  her  sighing  she 
did  not  slacken  her  steps  or  forget  the  Signo- 
rina's  cream  and  butter.  The  milkman's  wife 
poured  out  the  first  into  a  wee  glass  flask  and 
wrapped  the  second  in  dewy  grape-leaves. 

"They  are  good  and  fresh?"  inquired  As- 
sunta, with  that  jealousy  she  always  exhibited 
in  her  Signorina's  interest. 

"  If  they  are  fresh !  "  exclaimed  the  sfosa, 
with  reassuring  enthusiasm.  "  And  how  stands 
it  at  your  house,  Assunta  ?  "  she  added,  con- 
descendingly. 

"  As  always  ;  thanks." 

"  'Tonio  goes  to  work  ?  " 

"  As  he  can." 

"And  the  Gemma?" 

"Also  the  Gemma." 

"  And  the  bambina  makes  her  communion  ?  " 
said  the  sympathetic  sposa. 

A  smile  of  pride  dawned  on  Assunta's  face. 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  the  sposa1  s  husband,  heart- 
ily. "  that  will  be  a  bella  ragazza  some  day !  " 

"  And  a  good  one,"  added  his  wife,  reprov- 
ingly. "  And  the  gown  and  veil  ?  " 

Assunta's  face  fell.      "At    this  hour,"  she 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       47 

admitted,  reluctantly,  "  they  do  not  find  them- 
selves." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  sposa,  sympathetically,  "  it 
has  been  a  hard  winter.  Courage  —  they  will 
be  found." 

"  Let  us  hope  so !  "  responded  Assunta,  fer- 
vently, appropriating  the  cream  and  butter,  and 
departing  with  so  many  salutations,  and  "  Until 
we  see  each  other  again." 

She  continued  down  the  hill,  taking  that 
winding  Way  which  goes  from  where  once 
loomed  the  mighty  Etruscan  citadel,  past  the 
gray  walls  of  villas  nodded  over  with  pink 
roses,  down  to  the  city,  and  at  every  zigzag 
turn  opens  out  to  show  you  all  Val  d'Arno 
with  Florence  on  its  breast,  lifting  her  towers 
and  spires  as  thickly  as  the  lilies  she  sup- 
planted. It  is  a  Way  where  one  may  see  a 
ghost  in  every  tree  and  pluck  memories  plen- 
teously  as  the  roses  on  the  walls ;  but  Assunta, 
Fiesolana  born  and  bred,  knew  and  cared 
nothing  for  that.  What  was  it  to  her  if  the 
feet  of  all  the  Etruscan  Lars,  of  all  the  legions 
of  Hannibal  and  Cassar,  of  eager  Catiline's 
followers,  of  the  entire  riotous  Florentine 


48        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

nobility  had  preceded  hers  over  these  roads  ? 
What  should  it  be  to  her  that  once  a  slender 
Mantuan  scholar,  with  bent  brows  beneath 
the  hood,  paced  here  as  every  day  of  her  life 
she  saw  the  Frati  doing?  —  or  that  a  gay  idler 
with  the  Decameronian  chaplet  about  his  head 
had  strayed  hither?  Truly,  nothing.  She 
passed  straight  under  the  shadow  of  Lorenzo's 
villa  and  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 

"  Seven  lire  —  it  could  scarce  be  less  —  and 
boots  and  stockings  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
ribbon  for  the  garland.  Dio  will  that  'Tonio 
may  keep  about,  and  Gemma ;  it  might  yet  be 
possible  then.  And  who  knows  but  the  Signo- 
rina  will  have  errands  in  the  city." 

Assunta's  heart  smote  her  a  little  even  at  the 
wish.  They  were  the  only  things  she  had  on 
her  conscience  towards  the  Signorina  —  those 
trips  to  town.  She  had  never  been  rightly  able 
to  satisfy  herself  that  when  the  Signorina  de- 
spatched her  in  haste  for  something  she  was 
quite  fair  to  the  Signorina  to  take  her  tram-fare 
and  walk  the  six  miles  to  town  and  back.  And 
the  fact  that  the  Signorina  was  none  the  wiser 
(for  she  found  no  fault,  merely  looked  a  little 
impatient  and  said  "  Va  bene  /  "  or  some  such 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       49 

phrase  in  her  singular  Italian)  only  half  soothed 
her  conscience.  But  what  would  you  ?  —  when 
times  are  so  hard,  to  let  an  honest  soldo  pass 
you  was  a  little  less  than  wicked ;  and  the  Vir- 
gin knew  she  never  took  a  centesimo  from  the 
Signorina  in  all  the  marketing,  though  the  Signo- 
rina  hardly  glanced  at  the  change  if  she  had  a 
pen  in  her  hand  —  as  she  usually  did.  Still, 
it  was  with  a  shadow  of  compunction  that  she 
opened  the  gate  of  the  villa  and  hurried  up- 
stairs. 

The  Signorina  greeted  her  with  the  cordiality 
of  one  who  has  been  impatiently  waiting  for 
breakfast  a  long  time,  and  she  poured  the  cream 
into  her  coffee  and  buttered  her  roll  and  began 
in  a  preoccupied  way  to  eat  it  without  her  usual 
inquiries  for  the  household  on  the  hill ;  for  the 
Signorina  was  anxious  and  troubled  about  many 
things. 

She  had  been  casting  up  her  accounts  — 
never  a  good  thing  to  do  before  breakfast  — 
and  had  decided  that  beggary  was  near  at  hand. 
Not  being  born  to  it  —  like  Tesita  —  the  pros- 
pect depressed  her  spirits.  Editors,  she  con- 
cluded, were  a  worthless  set,  and  literature  a 
profitless  profession.  Any  number  of  unpleas- 
4 


50       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

ant  facts  stared  her  in  the  face.  Decidedly 
she  must  give  up  the  new  summer  hat  and 
patronize  second-best  dressmakers  ;  and  the 
Signorina  hated  second-best  things  on  principle 
as  well  as  by  instinct.  The  charming  hem- 
stitched linen  which  the  ricamitrice  made  for 
almost  nothing  must  also  be  renounced,  —  the 
Signorina  looked  disgustedly  at  the  plain  cloth 
on  the  table,  —  and  all  like  frivolous  indulgences 
must  be  denied.  She  began  to  think,  too,  that 
she  must  make  a  rule  of  visiting  the  galleries  on 
free  days,  —  a  practice  particularly  abhorrent  to 
the  Signorina,  whom  Nature  had  so  framed  that 
she  never  felt  a  desire  to  look  at  a  picture  on 
Sundays,  but  hungered  and  thirsted  after  them 
on  Saturdays  and  Mondays.  She  was  so 
troubled  at  all  these  things  that  she  did  not 
look  up  until  Assunta  had  twice  said  "  Signo- 
rina ! "  in  an  accent  of  reproach. 

"  The  Signorina  is  very  naughty  (molto 
cattiva)?  said  Assunta  the  third  time.  "  She 
slept  again  with  her  window  open." 

"  I  have  told  you  fifty  times,  Assunta,"  re- 
sponded the  Signorina,  listlessly,  "  that  I  can't 
sleep  at  all  without." 

"  And  therefore  the  Signorina  is  pallidissima 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       51 

this  morning,"  went  on  Assunta,  calmly.  "  And 
it  is  bad  for  the  eyes." 

The  Signorina  opened  hers  widely. 

"  Nonsense  ;  when  there  is  n't  a  ray  of  light 
—  not  so  much  as  a  firefly." 

"  And  now  the  Signorina  eats  nothing.  Eat, 
eat,  Signorina,  and  fatten." 

Thus  adjured,  as  she  was  three  times  a  day, 
the  Signorina  —  nowise  remarkable  for  pallor  or 
emaciation  among  her  pallid  countrywomen, 
but  who,  since  she  came  to  Italy,  had  often  been 
made  to  feel  that  she  was  created  in  the  image  of 
a  tallow  candle  —  made  an  effort  to  swallow  the 
other  half  of  her  roll. 

"  How  is  your  husband  to-day,  Assunta  ? " 
she  asked,  with  languid  interest. 

"  Badly,  badly,  Signorina,"  answered  Assunta, 
cheerfully,  cutting  bread.  "  Poverino !  when  he 
goes  to  work  he  walks  so."  She  dramatically 
doubled  herself  up  and  limped  a  few  steps,  then, 
straightening  up,  pushed  the  butter  towards  the 
Signorina,  saying  cheerily,  "Eat,  eat,  Signo- 
rina mia" 

"  Goes  to  work  ?"  echoed  the  Signorina,  "but 
he  has  been  in  bed  for  weeks;  how  can  he 
work?" 


52        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

Assunta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  What  would  you  ?  There  were  but  two  lire 
left  remaining  when  we  paid  the  fornaio  Satur- 
day, and  the  Signorina  knows  two  lire  is  little 
for  five  persons." 

"  But  there  is  always  the  straw-work  ?  " 

"  Truly,  yes  (the  Signorina  is  not  eating)  — 
there  is  the  straw-work,"  assented  Assunta, 
"Yesterday  the  Delia  made  twenty  fans." 

"  Twenty  fans  !  that  must  be  a  long  day's 
work,  Assunta  ?  " 

"  From  six  to  eight  —  every,  every,  EVERY 
minute,  Signorina." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  thought  the  Signorina,  "  7 
should  like  to  make  twenty  fans  a  day  —  and 
sell  them  !  How  much  does  she  get  for  a  fan, 
Assunta  ?  " 

"  A  centesimo,  Signorina." 

The  Signorina,  with  a  spoonful  of  coffee  at 
her  lips,  dropped  it 

"  A  centesimo !  "  she  repeated. 

"  What  misfortune  !  "  ejaculated  Assunta, 
hastily  wiping  up  the  coffee. 

While  she  did  so  the  unmathematical  Signo- 
rina made  a  hasty  calculation.  A  centesimo  is 
the  fifth  of  a  cent;  twenty  centesimi  are  four 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       53 

cents  ;  then  if  one  works  "  every,  every,  EVERY 
minute "  for  fourteen  hours,  one  may  live  to 
make  four  cents  a  day.  "  And  the  fans  sell  for 
a  franc  and  a  half  or  two  francs  apiece  ;  worse 
than  literature!'''1  concluded  the  Signorina 
grimly  to  herself. 

"It  is  not  much,"  said  Assunta,  serenely, 
"  but  what  would  you  ?  The  fabbricante  makes 
all.  The  Giulia,  however,"  she  went  on,  en- 
couragingly, "  can  now  make  from  eight  to  ten 
arms  of  braid  a  day,  and  receives  twenty-five 
centesimi  for  fourteen  arms." 

"And  Gemma?"  suggested  the  Signorina, 
faintly. 

"  The  Gemma  makes  three  francs  a  week  at 
the  fabbrica,  but  — poverina .'  —  she  is  always 
ill.  The  Signorina  has  eaten  nothing!  " 

The  Signorina  turned  at  the  door  of  her 
room. 

"  And  the  gown  for  the  first  Communion, 
Assunta  ?  "  she  asked. 

Assunta  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Chi  lo  sa  !  —  it  does  not  find  itself  —  as 
yet." 

"And  the  veil,  the  ribbon? " 

Assunta's  face  faded  still  more. 


54       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

"  The  veil  —  and  the  ribbon  —  also  the  boots 
—  do  not  find  themselves  either,  Signorina," 
she  replied,  despondently. 

The  Signorina  looked  at  the  downcast  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Never  mind !  "  she  said  encouragingly.  "  I 
dare  say  they  will,  and,  by  and  by,  could  you  go 
to  the  city  for  me  ?  " 

"  Willingly,  Signorina  !  "  responded  Assunta, 
with  alacrity ;  and  as  she  spoke  her  heart 
smote  her. 

It  smote  her  again  when  she  stood  in  the 
Piazza  San  Domenico  with  the  Signorina's 
franc  in  her  hand.  It  would  cost  her  eighty 
centimes  to  go  and  return,  and  the  Signorina 
was  wont  to  bestow  the  remaining  twenty  on 
her.  The  sun  was  at  white  heat ;  there  stood 
the  tram  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the 
winding  Way  of  Boccaccio,  three  miles  of  it, 
between  stone  walls  which  gathered  the  heat 
and  reflected  it  straight  to  the  lime-dust  of  the 
road.  She  hesitated,  —  beholding  on  the  one 
hand  her  waiting  Signorina,  who  could  do  no 
more  work  without  paper,  and  on  the  other  the 
metre  and  a  half  of  ribbon  which  might  be 
bought  for  eighty  centimes. 


The  House  on   the    Hill-Top.     55 

"  It  is  a  sin  to  waste  it  and  I  will  run  every 
step  of  the  way ! "  she  thought,  and  set  hastily 
off  down  the  burning  road. 

"  Ecco,  Signorina  ! "  she  exclaimed,  hours 
later,  depositing  a  heavy  package  on  the  table, 
before  which  the  Signorina,  in  the  thinnest  of 
cool,  white  muslins,  sat,  feeling  life  a  burden. 
She  glanced  at  her  messenger's  purple  face  but 
said  nothing. 

"  How  it  is  cool  and  fresh  here !  "  remarked 
Assunta,  easily,  "  but  in  those  trams,  Dio  mio, 
what  a  heat !  Here  are  the  twenty  centesimi." 

The  Signorina  pushed  them  silently  back. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  gently. 

"  Dio  mio  ! "  moaned  Assunta  to  herself  as 
she  toiled  up  the  hill,  "  Dio  mio  /  Dio  mio  /  " 
She  said  it  all  the  way  until  she  came  in  sight 
of  the  little  house  on  the  hill-top,  and  Giulia 
bending  over  the  frame,  her  cheeks  pale  with 
the  long,  hot  day's  work. 

Then  Assunta's  eyes  brightened. 

"  Guarda,  Giulia  !  "  she  exclaimed,  joyously, 
holding  up  her  franc,  "  the  ribbon  finds  it- 
self!" 

Giulia,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  threw  her  arms 
about  her ;  and  the  last  sting  of  remorse  van- 
ished at  that  touch. 


56       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

"  I  ran  all  the  way,"  she  said  to  herself,  just- 
ifyingly. 

"  Gemma,  oh,  Gemma  !  "  cried  Giulia,  dart- 
ing to  greet  her  as  she  dragged  up  the  steps, 
and  dancing  about  her.  "The  ribbon  finds 
itself!" 

She  stopped  short,  perceiving  Tesita,  hot 
and  dirty  from  a  day's  lolling  in  the  dust,  but 
with  many  soldi  in  her  —  or  rather  Beppe's  — 
pocket.  Tesita  heard. 

"  Huh ! "  she  said  to  herself,  contemptuously. 
"  Now  she 's  got  her  old  ribbon ! " 

Not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  Tesita 
have  admitted  to  herself  a  pang  of  envy. 

"  Huh ! "  she  said  again,  scornfully. 

Assunta,  smiling  still  with  exultation,  and 
beginning  to  fan  the  fire  for  the  mtnestra, 
paused  to  shake  her  head  and  murmur,  as 
usual :  — 

"Niente  dibuona!" 

"Dio  miof"  Assunta  said  it  often,  in  the 
intervening  weeks,  as  the  days  dragged  along, 
loaded  with  calamities. 

"  Dio  mio  /  "     She  said  it  very  often. 

First,  'Tonio  took  to  his  bed,  doubled  up  with 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       57 

rheumatism  so  that  it  was  no  longer  possible 
to  sit  up  —  much  less  work.  And  instead  of 
ten  francs  a  week  —  "  and  he  has  been  known 
to  make  as  much  as  fourteen,"  said  Assunta, 
with  sad  pride  —  there  was  nothing  at  all.  And 
then  —  as  if  there  was  no  reason  in  anything  — 
his  stomach  refused  the  good  food,  bread  and 
minestra,  such  as  he  had  eaten  every  day  of 
his  life,  except  such  days  as  they  had  not  been 
able  to  afford  the  minestra,  when  he  ate  the 
bread  alone. 

"  Seven  pounds  and  a  half  of  bread  and  a 
half  a  kilo  of  minestra  every  day,"  said  As- 
sunta, "  and  the  bread  a  whole  franc !  The 
Signorina  sees,  what  with  a  bit  of  carbone  to 
cook  the  minestra  and  a  drop  of  petrolic  to 
work  by  nights,  and  the  rent,  it  is  not  possible 
to  live  on  much  less  than  twelve  francs,  or  even 
fourteen,  a  week." 

The  Signorina,  grown  expert  in  doing  many 
little  sums  lately,  computed  rapidly :  fourteen 
francs  a  week;  one  hundred  and  forty-five 
dollars  a  year;  divide  by  five  —  twenty-nine 
dollars  a  year  apiece ;  divide  by  twelve  —  two 
dollars  and  forty  cents  a  month  apiece.  No, 
she  did  not  find  it  unreasonable. 


58       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

"  But  we  must  all  work,"  said  Assunta,  "  and 
if  'Tonio  cannot  eat  he  cannot  work,  and  if  he 
cannot  eat  good  bread  — ! "  she  looked  as  if 
divided  between  compassion  and  impatience. 

The  Signorina  was  no  longer  surprised  at 
anything  —  even  'Tonio's  unreason. 

"  Buon  giorno,  Signorina ;  has  she  slept 
well  ? "  always  greeted  her  ears,  in  the  same 
tone  of  unvarying,  cheerful  interest,  each  morn- 
ing. Assunta  might  have  a  trouble  or  two  at 
heart,  but  who  was  she  that  she  should  bring 
her  clouds  into  the  Signorina's  atmosphere? 
It  was  not  until  the  Signorina  herself,  in  the 
pauses  of  her  type-writing  or  her  writing,  looked 
up  and  asked  specific  questions,  that  she  ex- 
tracted such  news  as  there  was. 

"  Yes,  'Tonio  had  taken  to  his  bed  again," 
or  "  Gemma  had  again  an  abscess  "  (for  people 
will  even  have  afflictions  that  are  not  pretty  or 
pleasing)  ;  but  " pazienza  /  what  would  you  ?  " 

There  was,  in  truth,  a  trouble  at  Assunta's 
heart.  It  was  not  the  sickness  —  that  she  had 
known  before.  It  was  not  the  lacking  minestra 
nor  the  bread  falling  short  —  these  she  had 
lived  through  before ;  but  a  First  Communion 
can  neither  be  given  up  nor  postponed.  It  rep- 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        59 

resented  all  the  festas  of  a  girl's  lifetime  in 
one,  and  its  robe  took  the  place  of  a  society 
belle's  hundred  party-gowns.  Gemma  had 
taken  her  Communion  three  years  before,  and 
the  bambino. —  what  a  misery  it  would  be  if  she 
should  miss  it !  The  bambino,  was  working 
day  in  and  out,  and  Delia  made  her  score 
of  fans  nearly  every  day ;  but  what  with  the 
baker,  and  now  a  plaster  for  'Tonio  and  an- 
other for  Gemma,  and  no  wages  —  it  was  a 
desperate  outlook  for  the  gown.  Assunta  shut 
her  eyes  to  it  and  went  ahead. 

What  she  did  and  did  n't  do  those  weeks,  no 
one  but  herself  precisely  knew.  The  Signorina 
grew  accustomed  to  seeing  her  arrive  breath- 
lessly, with  the  butter  and  cream  and  an 
apology  —  she  had  had  a  bit  to  do,  or  an  errand 
to  run,  and  the  Signorina  would  graciously 
"  have  patience."  Or  late  in  the  evenings 
when  she  had  (presumably)  been  at  home  for 
hours,  the  Signorina  strolling  in  the  ilex-walks 
would  hear  a  cheery  "  Good-evening,  Signorina! 
a  pleasant  walk !"  and  behold  her  late  servitor 
up  to  her  elbows  in  the  stone  washing-trough, 
or  ironing  for  dear  life  on  a  table  set  in  the 
shrine  beneath  the  life-size  Crucifixion. 


60       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

Once  in  a  while  —  but  rarely  —  the  Signorina 
let  fall  some  commiserating  word. 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  was  the  invariable  reply, 
accompanied  by  a  shrug ;  "  I  have  never  been 
less  poor,  Signorina." 

But  as  the  days  passed,  bringing  nothing  but 
more  debt  and  less  hope,  Assunta  clasped  her 
hands  and  dropped  more  than  one  tear  upon 
that  ironing-table,  while  she  fervently  implored 
the  saints  and  Madonna  for  aid.  The  Madonna 
herself  ought  to  take  an  interest  in  it,  for  surely 
she  could  n't  want  Giulia  to  march  in  her  pro- 
cession wearing  things  so  shabby  that  they  could 
only  be  characterized  by  ending  them  in  a  scorn- 
ful " accio"  —  " scarpaccio"  and  the  like. 

Whether  the  Madonna  took  this  view  of  it  or 
not,  one  day  Assunta  fairly  flew  upstairs  and 
announced  joyfully :  — 

"  Signorina  !  Signorina  !  the  veil  finds  itself  !  " 

The  Signorina  dropped  her  pen  and  clapped 
her  hands. 

"  It  is  most  beautiful  —  and  a  gift ! "  Assunta 
continued,  ecstatically.  "  So  large,  and  also  long 
and  beautiful  —  beautiful,  Signorina ! " 

It  is  true,  if  dark  clouds  have  silver  linings, 
silver  clouds  have  dark  ones  as  often  ;  the  next 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       61 

morning  Gemma  coughed  blood.  Assunta's 
voice  broke  as  she  told  it,  and  she  wrung  her 
hands  passionately  for  a  moment.  "  Dio  mio  / 
if  it  should  be  —  all  her  father's  people  went  so ! 
Che  passione  !  " 

The  Signorina  looked  helplessly  about  her. 

"  But  Giulia  is  well,"  she  said,  "  and  Delia  is 
never  ill." 

A  shadow  crossed  Assunta's  face. 

"  No  danger,"  she  said  briefly,  with  the  only 
approach  to  bitterness  the  Signorina  ever  heard. 

Poor,  homely,  stupid  Delia !  the  only  one  of 
the  three  always  well  and  robust.  While  pretty 
Gemma — 

The  Signorina  tried  again ;  she  too  had 
coughed  blood,  but  I  hardly  think  her  physicians 
would  have  recognized  her  case  from  her  de- 
scription. She  was  very  eloquent  over  it.  When 
she  had  finished,  Assunta  regarded  her  respect- 
fully, as  a  miracle,  and  the  Signorina  felt  a  little 
like  a  miracle  herself.  According  to  her  it  was 
less  than  nothing,  if  it  were  not  indeed  a  healthy 
symptom,  to  cough  blood ;  all  the  long-lived 
people  she  was  able  to  remember  had  coughed 
for  many  years.  One  could  argue  nothing  from 
a  trifle  of  that  kind.  Assunta  was  more  than 
consoled. 


62        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

"  And  the  Signorina  slept  again  with  her  win- 
dow open  !  "  she  remarked,  catching  sight  of  it 
as  she  wiped  away  the  last  tear.  "  How  naughty 
she  is  !  And  the  veil,  Signorina,  you  should  see 
how  it  is  beautiful !  "  she  added,  gayly,  from  the 
threshold,  as  she  went. 

The  Signorina  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  deeply 
conscious  that  she  had  been  making  an  idiot  of 
herself. 

"  Cosa  vuole  ?  —  what  would  you  ?  "  she  said  to 
herself  in  Assunta's  extenuating  phrase,  a  little 
palely. 

She  was  so  tired  that  she  underwent  a  revul- 
sion later,  and  was  glad  when  Assunta  brought 
in  strawberries  for  her  to  look  at,  and  she  could 
survey  them  discontentedly  and  find  them  poor, 
and  dear  at  the  price. 

Assunta  agreed  that  they  ought  to  be  far  finer 
for  the  Signorina,  and  suggested  that  it  might 
be  well  for  her  to  go  in  search  of  others  at 
Fiesole  —  or  even  to  the  city. 

Which  brought  the  Signorina  to  her  senses. 

"  This  is  my  festa,  Assunta,"  said  the  Signo- 
rina, looking  up  from  the  pile  of  birthday  letters 
and  gifts  on  her  table. 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       63 

Assunta,  with  a  copper  water-jar  in  either 
hand,  stopped  short. 

"  Truly,  Signorina !  it  is  also  mine ! "  she 
exclaimed.  "  And  how  many  years  has  the 
Signorina  ?  "  she  asked,  with  interest. 

"Twenty-eight." 

The  copper  jars  went  down  to  the  floor. 

"  Truly !  How  well  the  Signorina  carries 
them  ! " 

The  Signorina,  who  never  before  had  realized 
her  antiquity,  felt  actually  abashed. 

"  And  how  many  years  have  you,  Assunta  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  finish  forty,  Signorina." 

In  her  turn  the  Signorina  stared ;  twelve  years 
only  between  herself  and  the  worn,  wrinkled, 
thin-haired,  almost  toothless  woman  before  her ! 

"Yes,  Signorina,"  went  on  Assunta,  tran- 
quilly. "  Forty  years  ago  my  mother  put  me  in 
the  world.  I  was  born  on  the  roadside,  the 
Signorina  remembers,  and  she  carried  me  home 
in  her  apron,  so  !  "  gathering  up  her  blue  apron  to 
illustrate.  Then  letting  it  fall  again,  "  And  the 
Signorina  has  twenty-eight  years  !  Who  would 
believe  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  should  like  some  very  nice  straw- 


64       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

berries  for  myfesta  —  if  you  can  go  to  the  city 
for  me,"  said  the  Signorina,  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  Signorina,  I  am  here  to  obey  you,"  replied 
Assunta,  gravely,  in  spite  of  her  inward  emo- 
tion. A  whole  franc  toward  the  boots  ! 

And  while  she  was  hurrying  down  the  hill 
and  over  the  white  road,  the  Signorina,  in  the 
midst  of  her  pretty  gifts  and  the  pleasant  mood 
they  awakened,  was  experiencing  an  unwonted 
fit  of  benevolence. 

"  Poor  Assunta !  "  she  thought,  "  I  should  like 
to  give  her  something  for  her  festa  —  if  I  were 
not  so  poor ;  "  and  she  fell  to  wondering  what  in 
all  the  world  Assunta  would  best  like  to  have. 
Not  that  edition  of  Shelley,  surely,  which  had 
made  her  own  eyes  sparkle  with  delight,  nor  yet 
the  dainty  linen  worked  by  dear  hands;  Assunta 
wanted  nothing  for  herself. 

"  I  know ! "  thought  the  Signorina,  with  con- 
viction. 

She  went  into  her  room  and  sitting  down  be- 
fore her  bureau,  drew  out  one  by  one  the  fourteen 
gowns  which  were  its  contents. 

"  I  will  certainly  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  after  some  pondering  she  selected  the  plain- 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       65 

est  and  the  oldest  —  a  white  cashmere — and 
spread  it  out  on  her  lap. 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  deepened  on  her 
lips. 

"  I  should  not  wear  it  six  times  more  —  and 
even  if  I  do  miss  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  gener- 
ously, "  I  should  be  willing  to  make  a  sacrifice 
now  and  then.  I  will  certainly  do  it." 

Her  heart  grew  light.  "  How  pleased  Assunta 
will  be  !  "  She  was  so  pleased  with  herself  for 
thinking  of  it  that  she  shut  up  the  other  thirteen 
gowns  gayly  and  went  in  to  dinner,  still  smiling. 
There  is  nothing  so  sweet,  the  sages  tell  us,  as 
a  self-approving  conscience. 

One  good  action  begets  another. 

"  Does  Gemma  like  strawberries  ?  "  asked  the 
Signorina,  languidly,  as  she  filled  her  saucer  for 
the  third  time,  while  Assunta  stood  beaming 
near. 

"  Chi  lo  sa  f  "  answered  Assunta,  tranquilly. 

At  this  remarkable  reply  the  Signorina  raised 
her  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  She  has  never  tasted  them,"  explained  As- 
sunta. "  They  are  so  dear  —  the  Signorina 
knows  —  " 

"  Never  tasted  them !  "  repeated  the  Signorina. 
5 


66       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

"  Do  you  not  have  fruit  —  all  the  fruit  you  want 

—  in  Tuscany  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  fruit,  Signorina," 
responded  Assunta,  cheeringly,  "  but  for  poor 
people  it  costs  too  much.  Sometimes,"  she 
added,  "  we  have  tasted  figs ;  yes,  more  than 
once  in  my  life  have  I  eaten  them  fresh  "  (the 
Signorina  had  an  instant  vision  of  them,  purple 
and  luscious,  and  sixteen  for  a  soldo),  "  but 
dried  —  never ;  as  for  oranges  and  other  fruits, 

—  the  Signorina  knows  what  they  cost,  —  I  and 
my  people  have  never  tasted  them.    Are  not  the 
strawberries  good,  that  the  Signorina  is  leaving 
them?" 

"  Give  them  to  Gemma,"  said  the  Signorina, 
with  a  gesture  of  loathing,  walking  away. 

Presently  she  returned  with  something  white 
in  her  arms,  but  no  triumph  in  her  expression. 

"  Assunta,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  if  you 
can  use  this  for  Giulia"  —  she  laid  it  on  the 
sofa. 

Assunta  fell  on  her  knees  before  it. 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  Signorina,  "  don't !  "  and 
she  fled. 

"  Dio  miol  Dio  mio/"  murmured  Assunta 
all  the  way  up  the  hill,  tears  dropping  through 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        67 

every  smile,  but  not  one  upon  the  precious 
cashmere. 

"  Giulia,  oh,  Giulia !  arrive  below !  "  she 
shouted  up  the  stairs,  and  then  she  opened  her 
apron. 

Oh,  the  rapture !  Giulia  laughed  and  cried 
for  joy ;  Delia  rejoiced  unselfishly ;  Gemma, 
coughing  painfully,  came  and  looked  wistfully 
— hers  had  not  been  so  fine  nearly,  and  this 
would  have  many,  many  tucks. 

In  their  hearts  all  had  begun  to  despair,  but 
now  that  the  dress  had  found  itself  the  rest 
would  surely  follow.  Giulia  flew  back  to  her 
frame,  and  her  fingers  flew  also  with  fresh 
activity ;  from  time  to  time  she  crept  away  to 
peep  at  the  wonderful  dress  all  wrapped  away 
in  paper,  and  then  flew  back  again.  Delia 
began  a  new  fan,  and  Gemma  —  pale  Gemma 
—  took  up  the  straw  in  her  thin  fingers  and 
began  to  weave  a  little  basket  for  the  Signorina. 
Even  'Tonio,  on  the  strength  of  the  great  re- 
joicing, crept  back  to  work  the  next  day ;  for 
he  thought  he  might  at  least  make  enough  for 
shoes  for  the  bambino,  —  and  he  did. 

"If  the  Signorina  can  spare  me,"  said  As- 
sunta,  tremulous  with  pride,  "  Giulia  is  coming 


68       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

at  half-past  twenty-one  o'clock  to  go  to  the 
city." 

The  Signorina  looked  up  quickly.  Could 
it  be? 

The  smile  trembling  on  Assunta's  lips  ran 
over  and  overflowed  her  furrowed  face;  one 
might  say  her  soul  smiled. 

"SI,  Signorina,"  she  answered  the  look; 
"we  go  to  buy  the  shoes,  also  the  stockings, 
also  "  —  her  voice  trembled  with  this  culminat- 
ing triumph  —  "  the  ribbon." 

The  Signorina  clapped  her  hands. 

"Bravaf    Brava!" 

Assunta  moved  softly  and  ecstatically  about, 
doing  her  work  ;  but  that  her  mind  was  full  of 
its  own  bliss,  the  Signorma,  tripping  steadily 
away  and  affecting  to  hear  nothing,  could  tell. 

"Beautiful  little  things!  beautiful  little 
things ! "  she  could  hear  her  sigh  ecstatically, 
as  she  lifted  the  Signorina's  thrice-patched 
number  fours  and  surveyed  them  with  lingering 
admiration  —  perhaps  picturing  a  pair  as  fair  on 
Giulia's  feet  And  she  spent  a  most  unusual 
care  upon  the  toilet-table  and  all  its  knick- 
knacks,  as  if  they  had  a  suddenly  acquired  rela- 
tion through  the  splendors  about  to  be  Giulia's. 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       69 

She  kept  that  bright-eyed  and  exultant  little 
maiden  waiting  long  after  the  hour,  while  she 
scrupulously  fulfilled  every  service  ;  for  nothing 
was  permitted  to  take  precedence  of  the  Signo- 
rina's  comfort.  At  length,  however,  they  de- 
parted, Assunta  quite  stiff  with  importance, 
Giulia  openly  dancing  at  her  side.  They 
walked,  of  course;  for  who  would  dream  of 
spending  twice  eighty  centimes  on  a  tram  ?  — 
and  what  was  six  miles  —  with  the  boots  at 
their  end  ?  Giulia  looked  about  her  secretly  at 
the  Piazza — she  would  have  liked  Tesita  to 
see  her  going  to  the  city  to  shop,  just  like  a 
signorina  ;  but  Tesita  was  not  there. 

The  Signorina  could  scarcely  wait  for  the 
next  morning,  but  when  it  came  she  had  her 
question  out  almost  before  she  heard  the  door 
open. 

"The  boots  —  are  they  beautiful,  Assunta? 
And  the  ribbon  ?  " 

11  If  they  are  beautiful,  Signorina!  —  five  lire 
they  cost  me  in  Florence  !  And  the  stockings, 
Signorina!  —  beautiful  black  ones  for  half  a 
lira!  As  for  the  ribbon  —  two  metres  and  a 
half  —  so  wide,  a  franc  and  a  half.  Giulia  is 
pazza,  pazza  with  joy  !  —  and  the  sarta  finishes 


70        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

the  dress  at  this  hour  —  the  Signorina  will  see 
if  it  is  beautiful ! " 

"  And  Gemma  —  and  Tonio  f  "  asked  the  Sig- 
norina, smiling. 

Alas !  why  had  she  asked  ? 

Assunta  found  her  voice  in  a  moment. 

"  Chi  lo  sa,  Signorina  ?  "  she  said  sadly  ; 
"the  Gemma  stays  in  bed  this  morning." 

"  And  'Tonio  ?  " 

"  'Tonio  also  stays  in  bed  ;  the  good  and  the 
bad  come  always  together  —  it  is  necessary  to 
have  patience." 

"Tesita  also  is  ill,"  announced  Assunta, 
later  in  the  day.  "  She  has  the  tifo" 

"  Ah !  I  hope  she  is  not  very  ill,"  replied 
the  Signorina. 

"  It  would  be  better  that  she  should  die," 
said  Assunta,  with  sorrowful  sternness.  "  When 
a  girl  stays  on  the  streets  it  is  better  that  she 
dies ;  she  will  come  to  nothing  good.  There 
are  persons  who  will  do  anything  for  money." 
Then,  her  indignation  melting  into  a  smile,  she 
added : — 

"  The  Signorina  will  not  forget  that  she  has 
promised  —  to-morrow  at  eight  she  will  be  in 
the  Duomo?" 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        71 

"She  will  not  forget,  Assunta;  she  will  be 
there." 

It  had  come  at  last,  the  great  day ;  and,  for 
a  miracle  of  miracles,  rain  came  not  with  it. 
Up  on  the  hill-top  they  were  stirring  with  the 
daylight,  for  how  was  it  possible  to  sleep  with 
those  boots  in  plain  sight  and  the  knowledge 
of  that  gown  in  the  drawer  ? 

Giulia  flew  from  room  to  room,  but  not  more 
excitedly  than  her  mother  and  Delia.  The 
whole  family  convened  to  assist  at  the  cere- 
mony of  dressing,  and  as  article  after  article 
went  on,  Assunta,  standing  by,  calculated  the 
cost.  That  added  immensely  to  the  impres- 
siveness. 

First  the  beautiful  black  stockings :  "  Half  a 
franc,"  murmured  Assunta,  breathlessly,  as 
they  were  drawn  on,  slowly,  without  a  jerk  or 
a  pull,  lest  they  should  tear.  Then  the  boots  — 
miles  too  large  and  quite  shapeless,  for  who 
would  be  so  incredibly  reckless  as  to  buy  boots 
for  five  francs  only  large  enough  for  a  foot  as 
it  is,  and  take  no  thought  for  next  year  or  the 
year  after  ?  They  had  patent-leather  tips,  how- 
ever, and  Giulia  could  hardly  stand  up  in  them 


72       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

for  pride.  Then  came  the  skirt,  with  many 
tucks,  and  all  the  fulness  in  front,  as  Fiesolan 
dresses  are  wont  to  have  it ;  and  the  waist, 
also  tucked  in  every  possible  direction,  length- 
wise and  breadthwise,  to  allow  for  the  years  of 
letting  out  and  down ;  naturally,  one  could  not 
hope  to  have  a  second  gown  like  this. 

"  Three  francs  for  the  sarta,  and  half  a  franc 
for  the  buttons,"  commented  Assunta,  as  Delia 
fastened  them ;  for  Giulia's  fingers  were  use- 
less, they  shook  so. 

Then  the  veil :  a  splendid  square  of  curtain 
muslin,  falling  quite  to  the  bottom  of  the  short 
skirt  and  gathered  full  about  the  rosy  face 
under  the  ribbon  garland. 

"  Two  metres  and  a  half  —  a  franc  and  a  half 
it  cost,"  murmured  Assunta. 

There  was  yet  something  lacking,  the  white 
cotton  gloves  Gemma  had  worn  three  years 
before.  Immensely  large  they  made  Giulia's 
slender  brown  hands  look,  and  the  fingers  were 
worn  through,  but  still  they  were  truly  mag- 
nificent. 

They  all  stood  off  and  gazed. 

At  last !  — 

"  Ten  lire  and  a  half  I  spent  for  it ! "  said 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        73 

Assunta,  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable  content. 
"  How  much  it  is  beautiful  —  Quanta  I  bella  /" 

"Quanta  I  bella!"  The  Signorina  said  the 
same  words  an  hour  later,  as  she  entered  the 
dim  and  still  Duomo  from  the  morning  sun- 
light, and  the  sixteen  little  boys  and  twelve 
little  brides  of  Heaven  carried  up  their  flowers 
to  the  Madonna.  Nearly  all  Fiesole  was  there, 
and  not  only  priests  and  acolytes  in  due  pro- 
fusion, but  a  Bishop  and  an  Archbishop  in 
white  and  gold  before  the  altar. 

The  little  brides  knelt  on  one  side  and  the 
little  boys  on  the  other,  and  twenty-eight  pairs 
of  small  hands  in  gloves  rested  on  the  chancel 
railing ;  while  twenty-eight  heads  bent  devoutly, 
with  now  and  then  a  furtive  side-glance  at  one's 
veil  to  be  sure  it  was  down,  or  at  one's  ribbons 
to  be  sure  they  were  still  there. 

The  Bishop  prayed  and  the  Archbishop  ex- 
horted; then  the  Archbishop  prayed  and  the 
Bishop  exhorted  ;  and  finally,  after  all  the  cere- 
mony had  been  duly  observed,  the  sixteen  little 
boys  went  up  two  by  two  and  knelt  to  receive 
the  holy  wafer.  Then  came  the  turn  of  the 
twelve  little  brides,  and  the  prettiest  of  them 
all  was  Assunta's  Giulia,  in  the  much-tucked 


74        The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

dress,  with  the  beautiful  boots  creaking  as  she 
went,  and  the  long  veil  fluttering  about  the  rosy 
face,  sweetly  serious  for  the  moment  and  for- 
getful of  all  her  finery,  I  really  think.  The 
huge  cotton  gloves  were  devoutly  folded  over 
a  white  prayer-book,  lent  for  the  occasion. 
And  as  they  went — 

u  Verbum  caro,  panem  verum, 

Verbo  carnem  efficit, 
Fitque  Sanguis  Christ!  merum 

Et  si  sensus  deficit 
Ad  firman  dum  cor  sincerum 

Sola  fides  sufficit," 

rose  the  voices  all  about  them. 

Eight  small  brides  had  knelt  and  risen ;  now 
it  was  Giulia's  turn.  The  Signorina  leaned 
forward ;  two  little  figures  knelt ;  the  Arch- 
bishop popped  something  into  two  rosy  mouths, 
opened  like  a  bird's  to  be  fed  ;  then  two  little 
figures  rose,  and  the  next  two  advanced.  The 
great  moment  was  over;  Giulia  had  taken  her 
first  communion,  and  — 

"  O  Salutaris  Hostia  t  qui  coeli  pandis  ostia  1  " 

sang  the  voices  softly. 

But  all  was  not  over ;  not   until  each  had 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        75 

received  a  silver  crucifix  (to  wear  until  one's 
second  communion,  eight  days  later),  a  pictured 
saint's  card,  a  medal  with  a  pink  ribbon,  which 
the  Archbishop  himself  threw  over  the  bent 
heads,  and  the  mammas  and  sisters  stealthily 
adjusted  from  behind :  and,  last  of  all,  a  loaf 
of  consecrated  bread  to  take  home  for  the 
collazione  after  the  service.  Then  the  Arch- 
bishop blessed  the  little  flock,  and  every  one 
pressed  forward  to  see  the  little  boys  and  the 
brides,  but  especially  the  brides,  because  they 
were  so  much  more  fine  to  see  ;  and  so,  all  whis- 
pering and  admiring,  the  crowd  poured  from  the 
Duomo,  not  forgetting  to  cross  one's  self  with 
holy  water  at  the  font. 

Giulia,  escorted  by  a  group  of  admiring 
friends,  walked  demurely,  casting  a  glance  to 
see  if  haply  Tesita  was  witnessing  her  triumph  ; 
but  Tesita  was  not  there.  The  Signorina,  how- 
ever, was  there  and  stopped  to  admire  every- 
thing, —  from  the  white  gown  and  veil  to  the 
crucifix  and  medal.  Then  they  started  up  the 
hill,  the  little  bride  blushing  with  pleasure  and 
modesty,  her  hands  demurely  clasping  the  book, 
and  all  her  train  following.  As  they  went  up 


76       The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

on  one  side,  another  little  procession  came  down 
on  the  other,  —  black-masked  Brothers  of  Mercy 
carrying  a  small  black  bier.  Every  one  stepped 
aside  to  let  them  pass,  and  Giulia  crossed  her- 
self twice,  like  a  pious  little  maiden,  once  at  the 
crucifix,  once  at  the  bier.  But  nobody  dreamed 
it  was  Tesita  going  by  in  such  state,  until  the 
next  day,  when  rosy  Annina  appeared  on  the 
piazza  with  Beppe  and  lisped  out,  "  Signorine 
— poverino ! "  in  funny  imitation  of  Tesita. 
It  was,  however,  "  a  providenza"  Assunta 
declared  then,  "  for  it  was  certain  she  would 
have  come  to  nothing  good." 

Far  from  any  thought  of  Tesita,  Giulia  sped 
on  up  the  steep  hill  till  the  little  house  came  in 
sight ;  and  there  on  the  threshold,  with  such  a 
face  as  the  angels  may  wear,  stood  Assunta, 
watching  the  triumph  of  her  child. 

The  little  bride,  finery  and  all,  flew  into  her 
arms;  oh,  it  had  been  so  beautiful! 

Assunta  turned  her  beaming  eyes  upon  the 
group.  The  Signorina  had  kept  her  promise. 
She  had  seen  it  all  —  the  procession  to  the 
Madonna  —  the  Archbishop  —  all;  and  it  was 
beautiful,  non  i  vero  f  Perhaps  she  had  even 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.        77 

seen  the  bambino,  take  her  communion,  at  the 
very  moment  itself. 

The  very  precise  moment,  even  to  the  open- 
ing and  shutting  of  the  rosy  mouth ;  it  had 
been  most  beautiful,  and  — 

"  Oh,  Assunta,  Assunta  ! "  exclaimed  the  Si- 
gnorina,  taking  the  hard  hand  in  hers,  with  sor- 
rowful passion,  "  why  were  you  not  there  ?  " 

Assunta  laughed,  a  little  short,  happy,  shame- 
faced laugh. 

"  Oh,  Signorina  mia ! "  she  said,  deprecat- 
ingly  ;  "  in  this  gown  and  these  boots !  how  was 
it  possible  ?  But  it  was  truly  beautiful,  was  it 
not?"  she  added,  gleefully.  "And  the  Si- 
gnorina saw  my  bambino,  y"  her  eyes  rested 
proudly  on  the  small  white  figure  holding  court 
in  the  dingy  room. 

Never  was  such  a  day!  To  be  sure,  there 
was  no  collation  —  it  had  been  manifestly  im- 
possible to  compass  that ;  but  the  neighbors 
came  flocking  all  day  long  to  admire  and  de- 
clare that  within  memory  there  had  not  been  a 
prettier  communicant,  —  no,  nor  one  that  de- 
served better. 

'Tonio  sat  proudly  by,  and  Gemma,  propped 


78         The  House  on  the  Hill-Top. 

up  among  pillows,  listened  and  shared  unenvi- 
ously  in  her  little  sister's  triumph,  while  Delia 
ran  about  waiting  on  everybody.  As  for  As- 
sunta,  she  only  stood  and  smiled  and  smiled. 
Never  was  such  a  day ! 

But  the  longest  and  the  happiest  day  must 
end  at  last,  and  presently  the  white  gown  was 
taken  off  —  oh,  how  carefully  —  and  folded 
away  against  thefesta  of  Corpus  Domini :  and 
the  veil  was  also  laid  away,  and  the  fine  prayer- 
book  sent  home,  while  the  beautiful  boots  were 
stood  on  the  bureau  where  every  one  could  look 
at  them. 

Then  the  soft  night  of  Tuscany  came  down 

—  luminous  and  fragrant  and  alive  with  silence 

—  and  everybody  slept. 

Tesita,  alone  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  in  the 
stanza  mortuaria,  slept  with  wide-open  eyes 
and  the  sound  of  slowly  dripping  water  near  by. 
And  in  the  house  on  the  hill-top,  worn  out  with 
excitement,  all  slept.  'Tonio,  forgetful  of  his 
rheumatism,  and  tired  Delia,  and  even  Gemma, 
ceasing  to  cough  for  a  time,  lay  sleeping  with 
the  little  red-stained  handkerchief  in  her  hot 
hand.  In  the  other  room  Giulia,  clasping  the 


The  House  on  the  Hill-Top.       79 

silver  crucifix,  dreamed  that  it  was  already 
Corpus  Domini.  But  Assunta,  a  smile  of 
fathomless  content  still  on  her  thin  lips,  slept 
dreamlessly  —  the  sleep  of  profound  exhaustion. 
Only  the  Signorina  down  in  the  villa  could 
not  sleep  for  thinking  of  many  things. 


THE   LUCKY   NUMBER. 


The   Lucky   Number. 


SHE  was  called  "the  Seventh,"  because  she 
was  the  seventh.  Only,  as  she  was  a  little 
Italian  girl,  she  was  numbered  in  Italian,  — 
Settima;  and  this  is  the  story  of  her  great  good 
fortune. 

It  began  with  her  falling  ill ;  perhaps  because 
she  had  not  eaten  enough  all  winter  long.  There 
were  six  little  sisters,  older  than  Settima  of  course, 
or  how  could  she  ever  have  been  Number  Seven  ? 
And  there  was  a  little  brother,  younger,  who 
might  have  been  called  "  Ottimo  "  —  "  Eighth," 
but  was  instead  Cosimo  Vittorio  Paolo ;  Cosimo, 
for  the  great  Duke,  Cosimo  dei  Medici,  who 
died  hundreds  of  years  before  this  Cosimo  was 
born ;  Vittorio,  for  the  Father  of  Italy,  —  her 
first  king,  Victor  Emmanuel ;  and  Paolo,  for 
the  little  boy's  own  father,  whom  Paolo's  mother 
considered  to  be  nearly  as  great  a  man  as  the 


84  The  Lucky  Number. 

other  two.  If  he  was  not  so  great,  at  least  he 
was  as  good,  —  which  is  still  better.  Cosimo's 
mother  had  wished  many  years  for  a  son  to 
name  Paolo ;  she  had  named  one  of  the  girls 
Paolina,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  never  the  same 
thing. 

Why  Settima  was  numbered  is  easily  ex- 
plained. There  were,  as  I  have  said,  six  older 
sisters,  and  as  names  cost  nothing  and  were 
almost  the  only  thing  Settima's  parents  had  to 
give  their  little  daughters,  they  gave  them  each 
several;  so  by  the  time  it  was  Settima's  turn, 
the  girls'  names  were  quite  exhausted.  When 
Cosimo  came,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  a 
whole  fresh  stock  of  boys'  names  to  choose 
from. 

However,  the  little  Settima  did  not  mind 
being  numbered.  She  lived  very  happily  with 
her  six  sisters  and  brother,  because,  although 
they  were  very  poor,  they  had  a  father  and  a 
mother  who  loved  them.  It  was  true  they  had 
but  two  rooms  to  live  in,  and  not  very  large 
ones  at  that ;  but  who  would  choose  to  live  in  a 
house  when  there  was  all  out-doors  to  play  in, 
and  especially  the  ship-yard?  The  Seventh's 
papa  worked  in  the  ship-yard,  helping  mend  the 


The  Lucky  Number.  85 

tall  ships  which  came  in  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean. There  were  always  several  tipped  up 
on  their  sides,  which  made  them  look  as  if 
wrecked ;  and  men  were  always  busy  hammer- 
ing and  sawing  and  making  holes  in  them,  to 
fill  up  again  with  tarred  rope  and  other  things. 
There  were  also  new  ships  being  built  and 
launched  continually,  and  seldom  did  Settima 
and  the  other  seven  fail  to  witness  the  launch- 
ing, and  cheer  as  wildly  as  if  it  were  a  new 
thing.  It  always  was  a  new  thing.  The  ship- 
yard was  Settima's  playground,  and  chips  and 
shavings  her  playthings.  All  through  the  sum- 
mer days  she  was  very  happy  there :  in  the 
winter  it  was  a  little  harder;  for  Italian  winters 
are,  I  think,  a  little  colder  than  Arctic  ones,  and 
Italian  houses  are  much  colder  than  snow  huts. 
Besides,  there  was  less  work  then.  Settima's 
papa  thought  himself  fortunate  if  he  had  two 
days'  work  in  the  week.  With  eight  francs  a 
week  he  could  feed  his  ten  well;  but  when  it 
came  to  four  francs  it  was  harder  to  feed  them 
well;  and  when  it  came  to  no  francs  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  feed  them  at  all.  And  for 
ten  to  be  without  food  is  just  ten  times  hungrier 
than  for  one  to  be  foodless. 


86  The  Lucky  Number. 

What  Settima's  papa  called  "feeding  them 
well "  was  giving  them  all  one  meal  of  polenta 
or  farinata  —  Indian  meal  or  flour — a  day. 
Settima's  mamma  cooked  one  or  the  other  with 
water,  making  of  it  a  good,  hard  ball  which  she 
cut  into  slices  to  go  around.  If  one  was 
thirsty,  one  drank  water  with  it.  Nobody  ever 
had  quite  so  much  as  he  could  have  eaten,  even 
at  the  one  meal ;  but  then,  nobody  expected  it, 
so  nobody  grumbled.  What  was  hard  was 
when  one  had  to  go  a  whole  twenty-four  hours 
at  a  time  with  no  polenta  or  farinata.  Settima's 
papa  looked  sober  at  such  times;  Settima's 
mamma,  on  the  other  hand,  tried  to  look  espe- 
cially cheerful.  Anything  but  polenta  or  fari- 
nata no  one  dreamed  of  having  at  any  time, 
any  more  than  new  clothes  in  winter ;  and  as 
for  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  pleasure  or  toy, 
—  Settima  would  as  soon  have  expected  the 
golden  sun  to  drop  into  her  lap. 

It  is  true  she  did  dream  sometimes  of  a  cav- 
allino,  —  a  toy  horse ;  but  that  was  because  a 
very  rich  little  boy,  such  as  Settima  supposed 
the  king's  son  might  be,  came  one  day  to  see  a 
ship  launched,  trailing  behind  him  a  beautiful 
wooden  horse  on  rollers,  with  a  gay  leather  har- 


The  Lucky  Number.  87 

ness  and  saddle.  Settima  and  the  six  stood 
speechless,  gazing  at  this  wonder;  they  forgot 
entirely  to  look  at  the  launch,  and  the  boat  slid 
into  the  water  without  one  of  the  seven  pairs  of 
eyes  seeing.  The  boy,  who  held  the  wooden 
horse  by  a  cord,  let  it  fall  to  clap  his  hands  with 
delight.  He  must  certainly  be  a  prince,  for  he 
had  on  a  velvet  suit  with  a  wide  collar  of  lace, 
and  not  a  patch  anywhere.  Then,  how  care- 
lessly he  held  that  wonder  of  a  horse,  —  quite 
as  if  it  were  nothing  to  him ! 

Settima  touched  her  eldest  sister's  arm. 

"  Is  it  the  Principino  f  "  she  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

For  she  had  always  heard  the  Prince  of  Italy 
called  so,  and  did  not  know  that  he  was  grown 
up,  and  only  called  the  "  little  Prince  "  by  his 
people,  because  they  love  him,  —  just  as  she 
herself  was  called  "  Settanina"  —  the  "  little 
Seventh." 

Marianna  was  wiser. 

"  They  are  forestieri,  —  strangers,  from  the 
other  part  of  the  town ;  there  are  many  such." 

Marianna  went  often  to  sell  chestnuts  where 
the  fine  houses  were.  Settima  was  too  little  for 
that,  and  few  strangers  came  to  the  ship-yard. 


88  The  Lucky  Number. 

"Have  they  all  cavallini?"  asked  she  in 
awe. 

"Ma  chl! — all  of  them,"  replied  Marianna, 
promptly;  " cavallini  and  dolls  and  carts  and 
parasols  and  silk  dresses."  Her  eyes  wandered 
admiringly  to  the  soft  silk  dress  of  the  lady 
with  the  Principino;  to  her  it  seemed  splendid. 
It  was  too  far  removed  for  her  to  covet  it  envi- 
ously, but  for  a  long  time  afterwards  she 
dreamed  of  a  blue  silk  gown,  as  Settima  did  of 
the  cavallino.  Every  one  of  the  eight  had  his 
or  her  secret  dream,  but  no  one  of  them  ever 
dreamed  of  its  being  more  than  a  dream.  It 
was  only  Settima  who  — 

"  It  all  came  of  being  a  lucky  number,"  as 
Settima's  mamma  said. 

For  seven  is  a  lucky  number  all  the  world 
over;  and  the  little  Seventh  was  just  seven 
years  old  when  her  surpassing  good  fortune 
befell  her. 

First  it  was  the  fever.  For  so  many  days 
there  was  little  or  no  polenta,  and  after  these 
days  the  nights  were  so  cold,  —  especially  when 
one  had  pawned  the  sheets  and  blankets.  It 
was  just  as  cold  for  everybody ;  but  of  course  it 
was  Settima  who  had  the  luck  to  fall  ill,  —  not 


The  Lucky  Number.  89 

very  good  luck,  it  seemed  at  first,  but  you  can- 
not tell  the  end  from  the  beginning. 

She  was  very  ill  indeed.  All  her  pretty 
golden  curls  were  shorn  close,  and  on  the 
seventh  day  the  doctor  said :  — 

"  She  will  be  dead  before  night" 

The  unlucky  little  Seventh,  and  the  Seventh's 
poor  parents ! 

The  superintendent  of  the  yard  sent  word  to 
Settima's  papa  that  there  was  a  bit  of  work  for 
him,  so  he  kissed  his  little  girl  a  last  good-bye 
and  went  out  wiping  his  eyes ;  for  no  one  had 
eaten  since  yesterday  morning,  and  he  could  not 
let  the  other  seven  starve  in  order  that  he  might 
see  the  little  Seventh  die.  Settima's  mamma 
left  Marianna  in  charge,  while  she  herself  went 
from  house  to  house,  from  neighbor  to  neigh- 
bor, asking  from  all  something  to  bury  the 
little  Settima  in.  In  Italy  the  dead  are  buried 
quickly ;  and  there  was  nothing  left  in  the  house ; 
she  could  not  take  the  clothes  from  the  living  to 
bury  the  little  sister  in,  for  the  living  had  so 
few. 

Among  other  places  she  went  to  Brigitta's 
shop,  —  the  home  of  the  polenta  and  farinata. 
And  so  full  of  trouble  was  Settima's  mamma 


90  The  Lucky  Number. 

that  she  began  to  tell  her  story  before  she  saw 
that  Brigitta  was  talking  to  a  stranger,  —  a  lady 
in  a  blue  silk  dress  who  was  inquiring  the  way 
somewhere  and  held  by  the  hand  a  small  boy  in 
a  velvet  suit  who  had  in  his  hand  a  wooden 
cavallino. 

Brigitta  and  the  lady  both  listened,  and  Brig- 
itta went  to  the  back  room  and  brought  out  a 
small  white  chemise. 

"It  was  my  Berta's,"  she  said,  wiping  her 
eyes.  "Take  it  for  the  poor  little  one,  —  she 
will  see  my  Berta  soon,  —  and  have  courage  !  " 

The  lady  looked  kindly,  but  said  nothing,  and 
Settima's  mother  did  not  think  this  strange. 
She  knew  that  the  lady  belonged  to  quite  an- 
other world  than  hers.  She  cast  one  glance  at 
the  beautiful  boy,  who  might  be  just  her  Set- 
tima's age,  and  went  out  with  the  chemise. 

But  all  the  people  in  her  own  world  under- 
stood. 

"Take  it,"  said  one;  "it  was  my  Chiara's 
child's." 

"  Poor  little  one  ! "  said  another,  "  I  have  not 
a  rag,  but  here  are  two  cents  to  help." 

When  she  came  home  she  had  a  little  pile  of 
garments  in  her  arms  and  several  cents  in  her 
pocket,  —  enough  to  bury  Settima. 


The  Lucky  Number.  91 

In  the  doorway  stood  Marianna,  and  when 
she  saw  her  mother  she  ran  to  meet  her. 

"  The  little  Seventh  is  going  to  get  well ! "  she 
cried.  "  She  is  going  to  get  well,  —  the  Dottore 
says  so." 

Settima's  mamma  almost  dropped  the  load 
from  her  arms ;  her  heart  jumped  so. 

It  was  quite  true.  The  little  Seventh  had 
awakened  from  her  heavy  sleep,  and  just  when 
every  one  had  given  her  up  began  to  get  well. 

When  Brigitta  came  in  presently  to  see  how 
the  child  looked  in  her  grave-clothes,  there  lay 
the  garments  on  a  chair  and  the  child  on  the 
bed  staring  at  her  with  wide-open  eyes.  Very 
pleased  was  Brigitta.  She  went  up  to  the  bed 
and  smiled. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Settanina,  a  fine  fright 
you  gave  us.  You  know  me  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Settima,  "  I  know  your  voice; 
you  are  Brigitta." 

"  Know  my  voice  ?  —  why,  what 's  the  matter 
with  my  face  if  you  don't  know  that  too  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see  your  face  in  the  dark,"  said  Set- 
tima. 

"  She  is  not  herself  yet,  poverina"  said  Brig- 
itta, shaking  her  head  pitifully. 


92  The  Lucky  Number. 

But  Settima  was  herself ;  only,  she  was  blind. 

At  first  her  father  and  mother  could  not  be- 
lieve it. 

"  The  good  God  would  not  save  her  and  not 
save  her  eyes.  He  would  know  that  would  be 
worst  of  all,"  they  said. 

"  Better  He  had  taken  her  to  Himself,"  they 
said,  when  they  found  it  was  really  so. 

"  Better  the  child  were  dead  ;  "  for  what  would 
become  of  her?  With  eyes  and  hands  it  is 
hard  enough,  the  poor  know,  to  make  one's 
bread,  and  when  one  loses  either,  what  happens  ? 
When  one  cannot  work  one  is  better  dead, — 
the  poor  know.  And  how  could  the  child  ever 
work  now? 

She  suffered,  the  poor  little  Seventh ;  it  seemed 
as  if  she  might  as  well  be  any  other  number. 
One  eye  was  hideously  swollen,  —  it  must  be 
taken  out,  the  doctor  said.  The  other  might  be 
saved,  but  it  would  be  necessary  to  go  to  the 
city  where  the  great  hospital  and  wise  doctors 
were,  —  and  that  would  cost  money. 

They  tried,  however.  Settima's  parents  went 
about  among  their  friends  and  neighbors ;  and 
this  one  gave  a  centesimo,  and  that  one  a  soldo, 
for  every  one  realized  it  would  be  better  the 


The  Lucky  Number.  93 

unlucky  child  had  died,  unless  that  eye  were 
saved.  But  among  them  they  could  not  raise 
soldi  enough  to  pay  the  fares  to  the  city,  saying 
nothing  of  the  charges  there. 

"She  is  a  child  of  misfortune!"  exclaimed 
the  father,  in  despair. 

She  is  truly  a  child  of  misfortune,"  said  all, 
sympathetically  —  for  you  see  no  one  could 
foresee. 

"  She  is  truly  a  child  of  misfortune,"  said 
Brigitta  to  the  lady  to  whom  she  told  the  whole 
story  while  she  tied  up  a  package  of  raisins. 

"Is  it  the  same  child  of  the  woman  who  was 
here  the  other  day?"  asked  the  Principind's 
mother  quickly. 

"  The  same,  Signora,  and  she  is  born  to  mis- 
fortune ;  some  are  so,"  answered  Brigitta,  shak- 
ing her  head  while  she  smiled  at  the  Princi- 
pino's  curls  and  blue  eyes  opened  saucer-wide 
to  listen.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
the  Principino's  eyes,  evidently ;  he  was  not 
born  to  misfortune.  The  Principino's  mother 
also  looked  at  him  and  perhaps  she  thought  the 
same  thing.  It  must  have  been  something  of 
the  kind,  for  the  next  morning  while  Settima's 
mamma  was  washing,  glancing  with  mournful 


94  The  Lucky  Number. 

eyes  now  and  then  at  the  little  girl,  who  sat 
listening  to  the  other  children  playing,  —  as  she 
must  sit  the  rest  of  her  life  listening,  —  a  car- 
riage, actually  a  carriage  drove  up,  and  in 
rushed  Brigitta. 

Such  a  rush  of  words  as  came  in  with  her. 
Settima's  mamma  caught  but  half  of  them  ;  but 
that  half  was  enough  to  tell  her  she  was  to  take 
Settima  then,  that  very  minute,  and  go  straight 
to  the  city,  where  Settima's  eyes  were  to  be 
made  whole ;  and  that  the  somebody  who  was 
doing  all  this  had  sent  a  carriage,  for  there  was 
just  time  to  catch  a  train,  and  it  did  n't  matter 
about  washing  the  child,  because  they  would 
do  that  at  the  hospital.  This  was  enough  for 
Settima's  mamma  to  know.  She  did  not  stop 
to  inquire  whether  it  was  an  angel  sent  by  God 
himself,  or  only  another  mother  who  was  doing 
this;  but  in  her  own  mother's  heart  she  knew 
that  it  was  quite  right  and  natural  that  some- 
body should  give  the  child  her  sight. 

While  Brigitta  picked  up  a  shawl  and  hand- 
kerchief and  tied  the  little  Settima  in  them,  her 
mother  took  half  the  few  centesimi  in  the  house 
and  slipped  them,  with  a  clean  handkerchief, 
into  her  pocket ;  she  knew  for  what  purpose. 


The  Lucky  Number.  95 

Then  they  hurried  into  the  carriage  and 
drove  to  the  station,  Settima  holding  her  breath 
with  delight  and  awe  to  think  of  being  behind 
a  live  cavallino.  At  the  station,  Brigitta  bought 
the  tickets  and  carried  the  child  to  a  third-class 
compartment,  while  the  mother  slipped  away  to 
a  vendor's  stand  near  by.  As  she  paid  her 
coppers,  the  bell  rang.  She  started,  and  with 
trembling  hands  tied  her  purchases  into  the 
handkerchief  and  hurried  away.  The  bell  rang 
still  as  she  rushed  down  the  platform,  her 
wooden  sabots  clattering  at  every  step.  The 
guard  was  already  closing  the  doors.  Settima's 
mamma  slipped  her  feet  from  the  sabots,  and 
leaving  them  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  plat- 
form, ran  stocking-footed  and  fast  as  a  deer 
to  the  train.  Brigitta  seized  and  pulled  her  in, 
just  as  the  guard  slammed  the  door;  but  she 
had  the  handkerchief  fast  in  her  hand. 

On  the  way  to  the  city,  while  she  recovered 
her  breath,  she  heard  from  Brigitta  all  the 
story ;  how  the  Principino's  mother  had  left  the 
money  in  Brigitta's  hands  to  give  to  Settima's 
parents,  and  that  the  child  was  to  stay  in  the 
hospital  until  the  eye  was  quite  well.  It  all 
sounded  like  a  fairy  tale,  and  Settima's  mamma 


96  The  Lucky  Number. 

had  to  assure  herself  frequently,  by  glancing  at 
her  stocking  feet,  that  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 

Settima  was  in  no  dream ;  unless  it  was  a 
nightmare.  As  the  train  drew  near  the  city  her 
heart  beat  faster  and  faster.  What  place  was 
this  hospital  they  were  taking  her  to  ?  and  what 
might  not  the  strange  doctors  do  to  her  ?  Her 
heart  beat  still  faster  as  they  trudged  through 
the  city  streets.  Her  mamma's  feet  went  noise- 
lessly in  their  stockings  over  the  damp  stones, 
but  Settima's  made  such  a  clattering  that  every- 
one turned  to  look  curiously,  for  in  the  city 
they  do  not  wear  sabots,  as  in  the  villages,  still 
less  do  they  go  in  stocking-feet.  When  at  last 
they  came  to  the  hospital,  Settima's  heart  sank, 
quite  down  into  her  sabots.  If  it  had  been  pos- 
sible, she  would  have  run  away;  but  where 
could  a  little  blind  girl  run  to  ?  She  felt  some 
one  lead  her  through  long  halls  and  into  a 
room,  and  some  one  else  drew  her  forward  and 
lifted  the  bandage,  making  her  scream  out  with 
pain  and  terror.  Then  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  talking,  and  some  one  said :  — 

"  To-morrow." 

Some  one  else  said  they  "  might  save  this,  but 
that  must  be  taken  out."  Were  they  going  to 


The  Lucky  Number.  97 

take  out  her  eyes?  wondered  the  poor  little 
Seventh  ;  if  so  she  should  certainly  die.  She 
clung  desperately  to  her  mother's  hand,  who 
kept  saying :  — 

"  Courage  !  courage ! "  while  the  tears  were 
running  from  her  own  eyes;  but  that  the  little 
Settima  could  not  see,  luckily. 

Presently  they  went  upstairs  to  a  long  room 
where  were  many  children  with  nurses  and 
kind-faced  Sisters  taking  care  of  them.  One 
of  these  took  Settima  in  charge,  and  smiled  so 
cheerfully  that  Settima's  mother  felt  her  heart 
rise  again.  It  rose  still  more  when  she  saw  the 
dinner  brought  in  for  all  the  children,  and  Set- 
tima was  put  down  at  a  table  to  eat  with  the 
rest.  There  was  soup,  and  after  that  meat 
and  chicken  and  a  vegetable  and  wine  and 
bread,  —  as  much  as  one  could  eat.  Settima's 
mamma  stood  by  with  her  eyes  fastened  upon 
Settima,  following  every  mouthful  down  her 
throat.  It  tasted  well  to  Settima,  who  had 
never  in  her  life  eaten  such  things ;  but  to  the 
mother  there  was  a  heavenly  flavor  in  every 
morsel  which  passed  her  child's  lips.  It  was  a 
pure  feast. 

Finally  Brigitta  nudged  her. 
7 


98  The  Lucky  Number. 

"  Now  is  the  time,"  she  whispered  sagely, 
and  Settima's  mamma  came  back  to  earth  with 
a  pang.  How  could  she  leave  her  darling  to 
the  surgeon's  knives  ? 

"  She  will  eat  like  this  every  day,  twice  a 
day,  besides  the  coffee  in  the  morning,"  said 
Brigitta,  encouragingly. 

"  Leave  her  to  us,"  said  the  Sister,  pityingly  ; 
"  You  wish  her  to  have  her  sight  again.  Courage, 
and  trust  in  God  !  " 

It  must  be.  Settima's  mamma  knew  it,  but 
who  was  to  make  Settima  know  ?  Brigitta  gave 
them  a  wise  look. 

"  Leave  it  to  me."  She  turned  to  the  little 
girl.  "  Settanina,  the  Signora  said  you  were  to 
have  a  gingtllo,  a  toy,  to  play  with,  shall  I  get 
you  a  doll  ?  " 

Settima  dropped  the  spoon  and  clasped  her 
hands;  the  heart  which  had  been  beating  so 
heavily  ever  since  she  entered  the  hospital 
suddenly  leaped  into  her  throat.  It  was  all 
she  could  do  to  utter :  — 

"  Oh,  not  a  doll,  —  not  a  doll,  —  a  cavallino" 
She  turned  her  sightless  eyes  to  them. 

"Very  well,"  said  Brigitta,  "your  mamma 
and  I  will  go  to  buy  the  cavallino? 


The  Lucky  Number.  99 

"Also  I,"  cried  Settima,  starting  up  blindly; 
but  the  Sister  laid  two  gentle  hands  upon  her 
shoulders. 

" You  cannot,  carina"  she  said  gently.  "It 
will  hurt  your  eyes ;  let  the  mamma  go." 

Settima  had  an  agonized  moment  of  hesita- 
tion between  a  vague  fear  and  the  ecstasy  of  a 
possible  possession. 

"  I  shall  truly  have  the  cavallino  ?  " 

"  Ma  chl !  "  laughed  Brigitta,  "  what  a  bam- 
bino, !  Of  course.  There  are  plenty  of  caval- 
lini  in  the  city,  are  n't  there,  Suora?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Sister,  doubtfully.  She  looked 
from  them  to  the  child,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Then  go,  go,  and  come  back  quick,  quick !  " 
panted  the  little  Seventh  desperately.  Her 
mamma  stooped  and  kissed  her;  as  she  did  so, 
she  thrust  a  handkerchief  tied  at  the  corners 
into  her  hand. 

"  It  is  for  you,  Nina  mia,"  she  murmured 
softly,  and  then  wrapping  her  head  in  her  shawl 
to  smother  her  sobs,  hurried  after  Brigitta. 

"  That  was  well  done,"  said  Brigitta,  with  a 
satisfied  nod,  when  they  were  safe  outside  the 
hospital.  "  A  few  minutes,  when  she  finds  we 
don't  come  back,  and  then  she  will  forget  all 


ioo  The  Lucky  Number. 

about  it.  The  Suora  says  she  will  lack  for 
nothing.  You  are  a  lucky  woman,  Anna,  —  she 
will  have  her  sight  again. 

But  Settima's  mother  did  not  answer ;  instead 
she  reeled  heavily  against  the  wall  of  the  build- 
ing. 

"  Ctef  CM.'"  said  Brigitta,  kindly ;  "  what 's 
this  ?  "  She  put  an  arm  about  her,  but  it  was  a 
minute  before  the  poor  Anna  could  speak. 

"  It  is  the  feeling  for  the  child,  and  I  ran  this 
morning,  —  nothing  else,"  she  murmured  shame- 
facedly. 

But  Brigitta's  sharp  eyes  were  not  to  be  de- 
ceived so. 

"  You  came  off  fasting,  Anna,  —  you  had  not 
eaten  this  morning,"  she  said,  reproachfully; 
and  Settima's  mamma  could  not  contradict  her, 
for  she  never  did  eat  in  the  morning.  Though 
she  had  feasted  divinely  on  Settima's  dinner,  it 
was  true  no  food  had  passed  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  continued  Brigitta,  "  I  know  all 
about  it,  and  now  —  "  she  strode  briskly  on. 

Settima's  mamma  followed  helplessly.  She 
seemed  to  have  no  spirit  left.  Without  a  word 
of  remonstrance  she  followed  Brigitta  into  a 
trattoria,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  without  a  word 


The  Lucky  Number.  101 

of  comment,  although  she  began  to  think  Bri- 
gitta  crazy  when  she  heard  her  order  bread, 
soup,  meat,  vegetables,  and  then,  —  yes,  evi- 
dently she  was  quite  crazy,  for  she  called  for 
red  wine.  Settima's  mamma  uttered  a  terrified 
exclamation. 

"  You  are  going  to  eat  this  once,  Anna,  if  you 
never  do  again,"  said  Brigitta,  energetically. 
"  Just  leave  it  to  me ;  I  know  what  I  am  about." 

She  insisted  upon  her  eating,  and  the  poor 
Anna  hardly  knew  herself  when  she  had  tasted 
the  meat  and  wine  and  bread. 

"  That  lucky  little  Settima  will  eat  as  much 
every  day,"  said  Brigitta,  and  Settima's  mother 
sat  rapt  in  the  sweetness  of  that  thought.  She 
looked  longingly  at  the  things  before  her.  How 
willingly  she  would  have  gone  without  all,  if  she 
might  have  carried  it  home  to  the  others.  And 
she  felt  a  pang  when  she  saw  the  size  of  the  bill 
the  waiter  brought,  —  forty  soldi  for  all. 

Brigitta  nodded  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"  There ! "  she  said,  "  that 's  better  than  wast- 
ing money  on  a  gingillo.  The  Signora  really 
meant  me  to  buy  one,  but  the  promise  did  just 
as  well,  and  soldi  are  better  eaten ;  there  are  too 
many  hungry  folk  in  the  world." 


IO2  The  Lucky  Number. 

Settima's  mamma  felt  another  pang.  She 
was  ashamed  of  herself  but  she  longed  to  cry 
out:  — 

"  Oh,  get  the  child  a  cavallino,  if  the  Signora 
meant  it,"  but  she  was  too  much  ashamed. 
What  Brigitta  said  was  true :  who  were  they  to 
spend  money  on  toys  when  so  many  were  hun- 
gry? Nevertheless,  her  heart  would  yearn  for 
that  toy,  and  she  looked  at  the  empty  dishes,  — 
how  gladly  she  would  have  gone  without,  if  she 
had  known,  and  now  it  was  spent  A  lump 
rose  in  her  throat,  as  if  it  were  the  dinner  which 
choked  her,  as  well  it  might,  considering  that 
she  had  eaten  a  cavallino,  Settima's  caval- 
lino. She  looked  wistfully  at  Brigitta,  but 
Brigitta  was  rising  to  go,  and  she  followed 
humbly. 

On  the  way  to  the  station,  she  glanced  fur- 
tively at  the  cavallini  in  the  shop-windows,  and 
the  shop-windows  seemed  to  be  full  of  nothing 
else.  Of  course  she  did  not  for  a  moment 
consider  the  splendid  and  large  ones  with 
carts  and  harnesses,  but  there  were  others,  small 
and  plain. 

"  One  of  those,"  she  thought,  "  to-night,  when 
the  child  is  alone." 


The  Lucky  Number.  103 

"  Hurry,  Anna,  or  we  shall  lose  the  train," 
called  Brigitta,  good-naturedly. 

Even  one  of  those,  thought  Settima's  mother, 
as  she  hurried  on,  must  cost  the  price  of  much 
polenta;  and  with  the  others  hungry,  how 
wicked  it  was  to  wish  it,  —  how  wicked  to 
wish  anything  when  God  had  sent  an  angel 
to  give  Settima  her  sight.  There  was  Luigi's 
Chiara;  no  one  had  sent  her  to  a  hospital, 
and  she  remained  quite  blind ;  also  Beppe  at  the 
shop,  and  many  more.  Brigitta  was  right ; 
she  was  a  lucky  woman  and  the  child  was  a 
lucky  child.  And  when  Brigitta  pulled  out 
the  money  the  Signora  had  left  with  her  for 
the  fares  and  fees  and  medicines,  Settima's 
mother  looked  at  it ;  oddly  enough,  her  first 
thought  was  of  how  many  cavallini  it  would 
buy,  then  of  how  much  food. 

"Keep  it,  you,  Brigitta,"  she  said,  with 
sudden  determination,  pushing  it  away. 

"  Just  as  you  will,"  said  Brigitta,  nothing  loath, 
but  making  a  feint  of  hesitating. 

"  Yes,"  persisted  Settima's  mother  firmly,  "  it 
will  be  best  so.  If  it  were  in  our  home,  see 
you,  Brigitta,  there  are  so  many  of  us ;  and 
perhaps  some  night  when  there  was  no  polenta^ 


IO4  The  Lucky  Number. 

we  should  be  tempted,  who  can  know  ?    Keep 
it  for  us,  Brigitta,  —  for  the  child." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Brigitta,  willingly,  "to 
please  you,  Anna." 

For  Brigitta  did  dearly  love  to  manage. 
"  There  is  not  too  much,"  she  added,  "  for  the 
Signora  is  not  rich,  she  says." 

Meanwhile  Settima's  mother  was  thinking:  — 
"At  least  the  child  has  the  other  things." 
And  at  that  moment,  Settima,  having  cried 
herself  tired  for  the  cavallino  that  never  came, 
and  the  mother  who  had  left  her  to  whatever 
horrible  thing  might  be  done  to  her,  was  being 
coaxed  by  the  Sister  to  stop  crying,  —  and  in- 
deed it  hurt  her  eyes  almost  too  much.  The 
Sister  who  was  at  her  wits'  end  twenty  times  a 
day  and  had  learned  to  think  of  all  things,  be- 
thought herself  of  the  handkerchief,  and  pro- 
posed to  Settima  to  open  it  and  see,  or  at  least 
feel  what  was  in  it.  Between  them  they  untied 
the  knots,  spread  it  open,  and  there  lay  the 
treasures  Settima's  mamma  had  purchased  with 
the  price  of  half  the  family  dinner  that  day,  —  a 
piece  of  coarse  bread,  half  a  dozen  dried  chest- 
nuts without  the  shells,  a  few  salted  pumpkin- 
seeds,  and  three  raisins. 


The  Lucky  Number.  105 

Settima's  fingers  went  from  one  to  the  other ; 
it  was  like  a  Befana  basket,  and  all  her  own ; 
but  alas  and  alas !  —  it  was  not  the  cavallino. 
When  the  nurse  tucked  her  up  that  night  in  one 
of  the  strangely  white  little  beds,  although  she 
put  the  handkerchief  with  two  raisins  and  some 
pumpkin  seeds  still  in  it  under  her  pillow,  there 
were  two  bitter  thoughts  in  the  little  Seventh's 
heart,  — the  dreadful  to-morrow,  when  her  eyes 
were  to  be  taken  out,  and  the  wooden  cavallino^ 
which  she  knew  now  she  never  should  have  in 
all  the  world. 

The  dreadful  to-morrow  came;  and  while 
Settima  was  being  strangely  experimented  upon, 
by  big  men  with  hands  as  gentle  and  tender  as 
the  hands  of  women,  Settima's  mamma,  on  her 
knees  before  a  lighted  candle  in  the  village 
church,  was  praying  for  the  light  of  her  darling's 
eyes  to  be  given  her.  The  candle  had  not  come 
out  of  the  Signora's  fund ;  it  cost  the  whole 
family  dinner  to  buy  it ;  but  who  of  all  the  fam- 
ily would  have  wished  to  eat  while  their  little 
Settima  was  suffering  unknown  anguish  so  far 
away?  It  was  not  a  large  candle ;  it  made  no 
brilliant  show  before  the  altar  even  in  this  dingy 
little  church ;  but  perhaps  the  appointed  Angel, 


lo6  The  Lucky  Number. 

who  knows  how  much  they  stand  for,  takes  es- 
pecial count  of  the  candles  of  the  poor. 

That  night,  when  the  candle  was  burned  quite 
out  and  Settima's  mother  went  home,  there 
stood  Brigitta  with  a  message  from  the  doctor, 
who  had  a  cousin  in  the  village,  to  say  that 
Settima's  sight  had  returned.  One  eye  was  gone, 
but  the  other  was  as  good  as  new. 

"  Settima  can  see  !  —  Settima  can  see  !  —  our 
Settanina  has  her  sight  again ! "  said  all  the 
other  children  over  and  over  again ;  and  every- 
body rehearsed  the  good  fortune.  The  child 
was  to  remain  at  the  hospital  some  days,  to 
become  quite  strong. 

"  And  only  think  how  she  will  eat  all  those 
days,"  said  Brigitta ;  "  it  did  not  seem  possible  she 
could  ever  be  hungry  again,  —  the  lucky  child." 

It  did  not  really  seem  so  to  Settima  herself, 
who  was  so  happy  at  the  hospital  now  that  she 
wished  never  to  leave  it,  —  so  many  children  to 
play  with,  and  three  meals  a  day,  when  one  was 
allowed  to  eat  all  one  wished.  And  now  that 
she  knew  she  should  never  have  a  cavallino  in 
this  world,  she  had  wisely  given  up  thinking 
about  it,  —  except  at  moments. 

Everybody  said  how  well  it  had  gone  with  the 


The  Lucky  Number.  107 

little  Settima,  and  Brigitta  told  the  Principind's 
mother  —  who  came  in  a  carriage  with  the  Prin- 
cipino,  to  inquire  —  all  about  it ;  how  one  eye 
was  gone  and  one  eye  was  as  good  as  new,  and 
how  much  they  were  giving  her  to  eat,  and 
about  the  dinner  she  had  made  the  mother  eat 
out  of  money  saved  from  the  gingillo  so  cleverly, 
and  what  a  lucky  child  altogether  that  Settima 
had  proved. 

"  Then"  —  said  \htPrinciptno1  s  mother,  rather 
faintly,  when  all  was  told,  "  the  child  has  never 
had  the  little  horse  after  all."  She  looked  at 
the  Principino  and  he  at  her. 

"It  is  too  late,"  said  the  Principino 's 
mother,  and  the  Principino  looked  very  sober. 
Then  his  face  brightened. 

"But  I  have  my  new  franc,"  he  said.  He 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  mite 
of  a  purse,  and  out  of  this  he  pulled  a  bright 
new  franc-piece  which  he  laid  in  Brigitta's  palm. 

"  It  is  to  buy  her  a  horse,"  he  explained. 
"She  has  to  have  a  horse,  —  my  horse  has 
gone  away." 

The  Principles  mother  did  not  interfere ; 
she  laid  a  two-franc  piece  with  his. 

"Yours  would  not  be  enough,   Robin,"  she 


io8  The  Lucky  Number. 

said.  "  We  are  going  away  ourselves,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Brigitta,  "  and  we  wish  the 
child  to  have  the  toy  ;  please  see  that  she 
does." 

"  And  we  are  so  glad  that  she  can  see," 
shouted  back  Robin,  after  the  carriage  had 
started. 

"  So  that  child  is  to  have  a  gingillo,  after  all," 
said  Brigitta  to  Settima's  mother.  "And  it  is 
not  so  bad,"  she  added,  "  for  it  will  console  her 
for  coming  home." 

Some  consolation  was  needed;  for  when 
Brigitta,  who  had  business  in  the  city,  went  to 
bring  Settima  home,  Settima  was  not  eager  to 
come.  Much  as  she  wished  to  see  her  father 
and  mother  and  the  troop  of  children,  it  was 
hard  to  leave  a  place  where  one  played  all  day 
long  and  ate  three  times  a  day. 

"  We  are  going  to  buy  a  cavallino"  said 
Brigitta,  coaxingly. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  returned  the  little  Seventh, 
calmly. 

And  she  did  not  believe  it :  even  when  Brigitta 
took  her  into  a  shop  where  there  were  hundreds 
of  cavallint,  —  not  even  then  did  the  little 
Seventh  believe.  She  looked  with  awe  and 


The  Lucky  Number.  109 

wonder.  There  were  cavallini  as  fine  as  the 
Principind's, — yes,  even  finer;  cavallini  with 
gay  harnesses,  with  saddles,  with  carts,  — 
cavallini  of  all  colors  and  sizes.  Brigitta  paid 
no  attention  to  these.  She  picked  out  a  plain 
white  wooden  horse  on  rollers :  it  was  unpainted, 
it  had  no  harness,  no  saddle,  and  it  was  not  many 
inches  high,  —  but  it  was  still  a  cavallino.  It 
was  worth  six  cents,  the  shopman  said,  and  after 
some  grumbling,  Brigitta  paid  it.  It  went  to 
her  heart  to  pay  six  cents  for  a.gingillo,  but  she 
had  promised  the  Signora,  and  she  was  a  woman 
of  her  word  :  she  comforted  herself  with  think- 
ing of  the  two  francs  and  a  half  and  more,  still 
left  for  polenta. 

When  the  cavallino  was  actually  thrust  in 
Settima's  arms,  they  could  scarcely  hold  it 
Her  little  body  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and 
it  was  all  she  could  do  to  follow  Brigitta  to  the 
station.  She  thought  no  more  of  the  hospital, 
no  more  of  the  Sisters,  no  more  of  the  three 
meals  a  day ;  only  of  the  wonder  of  the  family 
when  she  returned  with  a  cavallino,  and  of  that 
greater  wonder,  the  cavallino  itself.  In  the 
train  she  touched  Brigitta's  arm. 


IIO  The  Lucky  Number. 

"  Are  you  sure  it  will  not  run  away  ?  "  she 
asked  very  low. 

"What?" 

"  The  cavallino" 

"  Ma  chl !  "  said  Brigitta,  laughing. 

A  little  later  she  touched  Brigitta's  arm  again. 

"  But  even  in  the  night,  I  mean,  —  will  it  not 
run  away  ?  " 

"  Ma  chl  >  "  said  Brigitta  again,  with  greater 
emphasis  than  before. 

Settima  held  it  fast,  however;  it  would  be 
wiser,  she  felt,  to  take  no  chances. 

And  presently  they  reached  the  village  and 
Settima's  home. 

There  were  all  her  family  and  the  neighbors 
and  the  seven  children  in  a  row  before  the  door, 
waiting.  How  they  did  crowd  about  and  won- 
der and  admire ! 

The  other  children  looked  on  with  envy. 
Here  was  Settima  come  home,  who  had  eaten 
bread  and  meat  three  times  a  day,  —  if  one 
could  believe  that,  —  and  had  come  back  with  a 
cavallino.  It  was  true  she  had  lost  an  eye,  but 
then,  —  Cosimo  would  have  given  both  of  his 
for  such  another  toy.  These  things  only  hap- 


The  Lucky  Number.  in 

pen,  however,  to  people  who  are  born  to  good 
fortune. 

"  It  all  comes  of  being  a  lucky  number,"  said 
Brigitta. 

And  they  looked  in  silent  envy  and  admiration 
where  she  stood  clasping  her  cavallino,  —  the 
lucky,  lucky  little  Seventh  ! 


COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 


Couleur  de   Rose. 


i. 

IT  began  on  that  day  when  Haydon,  tired  of 
prizes  and  medals  and  studios  and  students  and 
the  praises  of  some  and  the  criticism  of  more, 
demolished  with  one  sweep  of  the  brush  the 
study  he  had  been  working  upon  for  days,  and 
dismissed  his  model. 

There  were  always  plenty  of  students  loung- 
ing in  Haydon's  studio.  In  the  first  place  he 
was  popular  on  his  own  account,  and  in  the 
second  he  was  regarded  as  a  pupil  likely  to  be  a 
master  some  day.  Could  one  doubt  it  ?  —  look 
at  his  drawing  —  his  anatomy  —  and  even 
(though  as  he  was  a  painter  this  was  naturally  a 
matter  of  minor  importance)  —  his  color.  For 
Haydon  was  that  rare  bird,  a  man  who  can  both 
draw  and  color.  His  technique  was  masterly  ; 
the  most  envious  competitor  had  to  admit  it; 


Ii6  Couleur  de  Rose. 

and  if  he  walked  off  with  all  the  prizes,  it  was 
not  without  fairly  earning  them.  Very  few  men 
worked  so  hard  as  Haydon.  He  knew  more  of 
anatomy  than  Angelo,  more  of  chemistry  than 
Leonardo,  and  at  least  as  much  of  perspective 
as  Paolo  Uccello  himself.  Added  to  this  he 
knew  so  many  things  none  of  them  knew  at  all 
—  and  yet  Haydon  felt  he  was  only  at  the  be- 
ginning of  knowledge. 

Because  of  all  this  there  were  always  students 
ready  to  jump  at  the  chance  of  sharing  the 
expense  of  his  model,  for  the  sake  of  working 
from  the  nude  in  his  studio.  To  work  in  one's 
own  studio  instead  of  the  schools  was,  in  itself, 
a  distinction ;  it  argued  positive  courage  for  a 
man  to  take  himself  seriously  enough  for  that; 
but  Haydon  was  a  "strong  man,"  in  the  argot 
of  the  schools,  and  could  afford  to  take  himself 
seriously.  Besides,  he  showed  no  symptoms 
whatever  of  departing  from  the  traditions;  on 
the  contrary,  he  only  became  an  intensified 

"  pupil  of ; "  and  that  flattered  not  only 

the  pride  of  that  particular  great  man,  but  of  the 
schools. 

And  now  the  Salon  was  beginning  to  cast  its 
shadow  before,  and  every  man  who  had  ever 


Couleur  de  Rose.  117 

exhibited,  and  every  man  who  hoped  to  exhibit 
was  sending  his  eyes  far  and  wide  about  him,  if 
haply  he  might  discern  within  the  horizon  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  a  taking  "  color  scheme," 
a  difficulty  of  foreshortening,  a  dazzling  effect, 
or  undiscovered  composition.  Impressionists, 
plein  air,  symbolists,  and  realists,  they  were  all 
in  full  cry ;  and  this  was  the  moment  Haydon 
took  to  cast  down  his  brushes  and  vow  to  aston- 
ish them  all.  He  professed  himself  sick  of 
lavenders  and  grays  and  drabs,  and  averred  his 
conviction  that  there  were  other  hues  in  the 
world  —  even  more,  others  worth  painting. 

The  men  looked  at  him  rather  soberly ;  they 
began  to  think  that  the  grippe  had  told  upon 
Haydon  more  than  they  realized,  and  that  the 
hacking  cough  which  he  had  never  been  able 
to  throw  off  had  pulled  the  poor  fellow  down 
considerably. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  turn  out  an  impressionist 
yet,"  said  Meredith,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  ; 
"  you  Ve  talked  about  color  more  than  a  bit 
lately." 

"It  would  be  a  comfort  to  turn  out  some- 
thing," said  Haydon,  irritably ;  he  had  a  little 
access  of  coughing. 


u8  Couleur  de  Rose. 

There  was  an  interchange  of  glances  which 
said  compassionately,  "  Humor  him,"  and  Kent 
inquired  mildly  what  the  new  scheme  was 
to  be. 

"  Something  with  color  enough  to  make  you 
green!"  answered  Haydon,  crossly,  conscious 
of  the  internal  working  of  his  companions' 
minds.  "  I  '11  out-Rubens  Rubens.  I  will  paint 
a  woman,  and  she  sha'n't  have  a  green  or  a 
yellow  or  a  lavender  in  her  whole  body.  I  will 
make  her  of  all  the  carnations  that  grow ;  I  '11 
give  her  my  old-rose  shawl  for  a  scarf  and  the 
morning  for  a  halo." 

"  It  is  taking  a  good  deal  of  trouble  for  a  lob- 
ster," said  Meredith ;  "  but  if  you  like  it,  go 
ahead." 

"You  will  call  her  a  Venus,  of  course," 
remarked  Lestrange,  cynically. 

"  No,  thank  you ! "  said  Haydon,  dryly. 

"  I  don't  hold  with  big  titles  myself,"  com- 
mented Kent,  approvingly.  "Call  things  by 
their  names,  I  say ;  call  it '  figure  of  a  woman, 
nude.' " 

"  Hang  the  name  !  "  said  Haydon,  impatiently. 
"  And  the  woman,  too ;  she  is  only  a  part  of  the 
color  scheme." 


Couleur  de  Rose.  119 

"  That 's  all  she  ever  is,"  put  in  the  philosoph- 
ical Kent,  aside. 

Meredith  was  fingering  the  old-rose  crepe. 
"  You  might  call  it  '  Couleur  de  Rose?  "  sug- 
gested he ;  "  that  would  answer  for  the  shawl  and 
the  scheme  —  and  the  woman,"  he  added,  sar- 
donically. 

Haydon  looked  at  him,  pleased,  as  he  said 
slowly :  "  That 's  not  a  bad  idea." 

"  All  very  pretty,"  said  Kent ;  "  but  what  I 
want  to  know  is,  where  you  are  going  to  get 
your  tarnation  —  excuse  me,  your  carnation 
model.  May  I  ask  if  you  have  one  '  under  the 
rose  '  now  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Haydon.  "  But  I  know  where  to 
find  her,"  he  added,  suddenly. 

A  week  later  he  packed  his  things  and  went 
in  search  of  her.  It  was  not  his  first  visit  to 
Italy.  He  had  a  tolerably  clear  notion  of  what 
he  was  about.  For  years  he  had  carried  in  his 
brain  dim  images  of  certain  little  towns  in  the 
Riviera  di  Levante,  through  which  he  had 
hastily  flitted,  and  of  the  splendid  beauty  of 
their  sea-bred  women,  and  he  had  promised  him- 
self more  than  once  to  look  up  both  again.  So 
as  soon  as  he  had  stepped  from  the  train  and 


I2O  Couleur  de  Rose. 

deposited  his  bags  at  the  small  albergo  which 
remained  open  and  empty,  he  set  out  for  a  walk 
about  the  diminutive  town.  His  nervousness 
had  decreased  and  his  spirits  risen  with  every 
mile  from  Paris;  now  he  was  too  buoyantly 
excited  to  keep  still. 

He  had  chosen  this  particular  town  because 
he  judged  it  would  be  deserted  in  winter  —  and 
it  was.  There  was  something  almost  ghostly  in 
its  streets  of  closed  houses,  row  upon  row,  until 
one  went  far  back  from  the  water-front  into  the 
poorer  quarter  of  the  town,  when  it  burst  into  a 
life  exaggeratedly  tumultuous  as  the  other  was 
exaggeratedly  still.  It  seemed  to  Haydon  that 
there  were  twenty  children  to  every  house.  And 
here  were  the  women  !  He  cast  keenly  critical 
glances  at  them  and  patted  himself  mentally 
upon  the  head  for  his  astuteness. 

Junos,  every  one  of  them,  —  a  type  as  fine  as 
the  Roman,  with  something  of  the  open  sea, 
which  the  Roman  has  not ;  a  type  totally  unlike 
the  Tuscan.  Haydon  looked  at  the  square  brows 
beneath  clouds  of  dark  hair,  broad,  calm  brows, 
at  the  fine  eyes,  broad-lidded  and  flashing,  the 
straight  features,  the  beautiful  lips  and  firm 
chins,  and  the  carriage  of  queens. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  121 

"  Superb  ! "  he  said  to  himself.  Among  all 
these  Junos  there  must  surely  be  his  Venus. 
With  the  same  observant  glance  he  took  in  the 
details  of  poverty  and  squalor  in  the  garments, 
and  the  interiors  thrown  open  to  the  sun  and 
the  passer-by  with  equal  indifference ;  and  he 
noted  that  many  of  the  faces  were  pinched  and 
the  noble  outlines  meagrely  filled. 

"  There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  getting  them 
to  pose,"  he  thought  with  self-gratulation  min- 
gled with  pity ;  "  anything  to  turn  a  soldo,  I 
imagine." 

He  promised  himself  to  come  to-morrow  and 
make  a  leisurely  and  scrutinizing  round  again. 
If  necessary  he  was  prepared  to  give  some  days 
to  the  finding  of  his  Venus ;  and  thus  resolved 
he  turned  his  steps  toward  the  sea. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Haydon's  feet  were 
treading  the  sands,  and  his  eyes  leaped  forward 
to  meet  the  Mediterranean.  There  were  the 
old  violets  and  purples  and  greens  he  remem- 
bered so  well,  —  no  other  sea  has  such  myste- 
rious tints ;  and  again  he  praised  himself  for 
coming.  To  his  right  stretched  the  fantastic 
growth  of  the  pine  grove,  with  its  life  all  at  the 
top,  and  above  bloomed  the  Carraras,  —  those 


122  Couleur  de  Rose. 

violets  of  mountains.  The  air  —  after  Paris  — 
was  like  Eden,  and  Haydon  forgot  his  chest  for 
the  first  time  in  months.  Down  by  the  Molo  — 
the  long  quay  which  ran  its  two  arms  into  the 
sea  —  boats  were  coming  in  with  sails  looped  in 
the  graceful  fashion  he  never  remembered  to 
have  seen  out  of  Italy,  and  the  sun  was  going 
down.  The  landscape  slowly  became  a  rose,  — 
a  mystic  rose,  flushed  from  end  to  end,  from  the 
mountain  tips  to  the  horizon's  verge ;  the  sails 
were  like  rosy-winged  birds  flying  home ;  even 
the  shadows  showed  as  deeper  rose,  and  the 
violet  of  the  Carraras  was  full  of  vibrating  rose 
life.  Far  up  the  beach  was  a  tiny  village  ;  its 
houses  loomed  in  the  reflection  like  a  rose-phan- 
tom. And  suddenly  Haydon  knew  why  he  had 
come. 

It  was  this  which  had  haunted  him  with  the 
name  of  this  village  all  the  years.  He  remem- 
bered it  now  perfectly ;  he  had  never  seen  its 
like  elsewhere  in  any  land  of  sunset  splendors. 
The  waters  had  used  to  take  on  every  shade 
and  lustre  of  rose,  and  ruby,  and  no  mountains, 
in  Haydon's  knowledge,  blossomed  like  these. 
No  wonder  the  place  had  arisen  with  the 
thought  of  the  rose  picture;  indeed,  he  was 


Couleur  de  Rose.  123 

never  after  able  to  resolve  for  himself  whether 
the  picture  had  recalled  the  place  or  the  place 
itself  had  been  a  dim  and  haunting  picture  in  his 
brain  all  these  years.  Strange  he  should  have 
thought  only  of  the  women ! 

A  light  mist  began  to  rise  and  Haydon  turned 
his  coat-collar  up. 

"  What  color !  "  he  murmured,  ecstatically ; 
and  as  he  stood  he  fell  into  a  reverie,  planning 
to  himself  how  to  reproduce  those  escaping 
effects  with  oils  and  canvas. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  it  was  grow- 
ing cold.  He  drew  his  coat  closer  about  him, 
and  turning  away  took  the  first  narrow  street 
from  the  water-side  and  came  full  upon  — 
Ginevra. 

She  was  standing  in  a  doorway,  and  Haydon 
stopped  with  a  gasp.  Over  her  head  hung  a 
sign:  "  Camere  Ammobiliate."  Hay  don's  eye 
caught  it.  He  removed  his  hat. 

"  There  are,  perhaps,  rooms  to  let  here  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  his  broken  Italian. 

"  SI,  Signore,"  replied  Ginevra. 

"  Can  I  see  them  ?  " 

"  SI,  Signore." 

Haydon  followed  her  upstairs  mechanically. 


124  Couleur  de  Rose. 

It  might  have  been  a  palace  or  a  hovel,  —  to  be 
sure,  the  two  are  often  one  in  Italy,  —  Haydon 
would  have  known  no  difference.  Ginevra 
threw  open  the  shutters  and  let  in  the  last  sun- 
rays. 

"  The  sea  sees  itself  from  the  terrace,"  said 
she,  tersely.  Haydon  stepped  out  on  the  little 
balcony.  The  sun  was  just  sinking  and  the 
rose  light  brightening,  —  there  was  his  sky. 
He  turned  back  to  the  room,  —  here  was  his 
woman. 

"  I  will  take  the  rooms,"  he  said. 

Ginevra  looked  at  him,  and  Haydon  blushed. 

"  I  mean  —  that  is  —  if  they  are  not  too 
dear,"  he  said. 

"  Thirty  francs,"  said  Ginevra. 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  —  " 

"  Thirty  francs,"  said  Ginevra. 

"  I  will  take  them."  Haydon  glanced  about ; 
they  were  surprisingly  clean,  and  neatly  if 
simply  furnished;  the  bedroom  was  airy,  the 
salotto  had  a  brick  floor  and  a  fireplace. 

"  You  —  "  Haydon  looked  at  her  and  hesi- 
tated. "  You  are  the  padrona?  " 

"  Si,  Signore."  There  was  something  partic- 
ularly unflinching  in  Ginevra's  accents. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  125 

"  You  —  would  perhaps  be  willing  to  give  me 
my  dinners  —  my  coffee?"  with  persuasive 
hesitancy. 

"  No,  Signore." 

"  But  I  will  pay  well  —  willingly." 

"  Impossible,  Signore,  —  there  are  the 
bambini" 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  —  I  must  eat." 

Ginevra  said  nothing.  She  regarded  him 
obdurately. 

"  There  is  perhaps  a  hotel  near  ?  " 

"  No,  Signore."  Ginevra  eyed  him  with 
manifest,  tranquil  indifference. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Haydon,  "  I  shall  come  in 
an  hour." 

"  As  you  will,"  responded  Ginevra,  coldly. 

"  A  nice,  plastic  nature  ! "  thought  Haydon 
as  he  went  back  to  the  hotel.  "  But  I  '11  go  if 
I  starve,  and  I  '11  paint  her  whether  or  no ; 
every  woman  has  her  price,"  he  added, 
cynically. 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  a  good  part  of  the 
evening  he  spent  in  buying  coffee,  sugar, 
petroleum,  a  spirit  lamp,  and  hunting  up  a  bread 
man  and  a  butter  woman  against  the  next 
morning. 


126  Couleur  de  Rose. 

Ginevra  gave  him  no  help.  She  brought  up 
the  packages  as  they  arrived,  without  com- 
ment, and  deposited  them  on  his  table.  The 
rooms  were  in  perfect  order  and  a  fire  already 
laid. 

Haydon  tried  his  utmost  not  to  stare  at  her, 
or,  at  least,  not  to  let  her  see  him  stare,  but 
he  compensated  himself  whenever  her  eyes 
were  turned  away.  There  was  something 
decidedly  stony  in  her  manner,  and  Haydon 
wondered  how  a  creature  so  beautiful  could 
be  so  little  simpatica.  He  had  not  the 
courage  to  broach  any  ulterior  projects  that 
night,  but  lay  long  awake,  his  brain  on  fire  with 
the  fever  of  the  artist's  unrealized  vision.  He 
meditated  plans  for  the  morrow,  and  meanwhile 
he  posed  her  —  his  model  —  in  every  imaginary 
attitude,  and  composed  her  in  every  possible 
relation  to  the  old  rose  shawl  and  the  sunset. 
He  could  hear  an  occasional  voice  of  the  bambini 
downstairs,  but  no  masculine  tread  or  tone  ;  yet 
there  must  be  a  husband  somewhere  to  account 
for  the  bambini. 

"  Some  hulking  brute  of  a  sailor  or  lumber- 
ingfacchino"  he  thought,  with  an  artist's  resent- 
ment of  the  waste  of  beauty.  "  She  is  of  the 


Couleur  de  Rose.  127 

people ;  it  is  the  same  type,  only  idealized.  I 
will  paint  her  standing  ;  no,  I  will  paint  her  half- 
reclining."  He  mentally  reviewed  the  poses  of 
the  perfect  figure.  "  I  don't  suppose  she  has  ever 
posed,  and,  perhaps,  she  will  be  a  bit  stiff  about 
it  at  first,  but  she  is  sure  to  give  in  in  the  end, 
if  only  from  vanity." 

With  the  morning  Haydon  lay  idly,  hearing 
the  voices  of  the  children  and  the  tossing  of 
the  sea  ;  then  suddenly  recalling  that  he  was 
his  own  housekeeper  and  cook,  he  arose  pre- 
cipitately and  began  his  struggles  with  the  spirit 
lamp.  His  coffee,  or  the  poor  similitude,  fin- 
ished, he  meditated  upon  the  next  step.  He 
could  hear  the  bambini  and  Ginevra  ;  but  hear- 
ing was  a  poor  substitute  for  seeing,  and, 
finally,  he  took  a  sketch-book  and  his  hat  and 
sauntered  out. 

A  child  as  beautiful  as  Ginevra  stopped  her 
play  to  bid  him  felice  giorno,  and  Haydon 
could  just  see  Ginevra  over  the  kitchen  table 
with  a  bundle  in  her  arms,  —  another  bambina 
evidently. 

"  Patience  !  "  said  Haydon  to  himself. 

"  Patience ! "  he  said  the  next  day  and  the 
day  following,  with  growing  impatience,  as  he 


128  Couleur  de  Rose. 

strolled  about  town,  trying  to  kill  time  in  the 
intervals  between  his  anchorite  repasts.  He  had 
discovered  little  else  besides  eggs  in  the  town, 
by  way  of  provender,  and  philosophically  and 
stoically  sat  himself  down  to  these  twice  a  day. 
Going  without  eggs  formed  the  one  variation  of 
diet.  Ginevra  regarded  all  with  a  silent  disdain, 
in  which  Haydon  once  or  twice,  to  his  discom- 
fiture, fancied  he  detected  a  gleam  of  secret  and 
malicious  joy.  Few  and  short  were  her  words, 
confined  to  strictly  necessary  inquiries  as  to  his 
fire  or  windows,  and  a  laconic  "  Si,  Signore,"  or 
"  No,  Signore."  Haydon  would  have  believed 
her  incapable  of  speech  but  for  the  running 
brook  of  laughter  and  song  and  conversation 
which  came  bubbling  up  from  below  all  day 
long.  Evidently  Ginevra  downstairs  and 
Ginevra  upstairs  were  two  different  beings.  If 
she  had  been  one  whit  less  beautiful,  Haydon 
would  have  left  in  disgust  after  the  first  week 
of  eggs,  but  she  was  not ;  indeed,  it  seemed  to 
him  she  was  more  beautiful  daily,  and  the 
oftener  he  turned  to  the  back  streets  and 
searched  for  another  face  and  figure  like  hers, 
the  more  resolutely  he  returned  with  the  deter- 
mination to  stay  till  the  last  hen  in  the  country 
had  ceased  to  lay. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  129 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  Ginevra, 
point-blank,  to  pose  —  but  he  laid  a  trap.  He 
set  up  his  easel,  hired  a  small  lounger  in  a  red 
beretta,  and  fell  to  drawing  with  great  energy. 
The  next  time  Ginevra  came  in  with  her  bronze 
water-jar,  she  stopped  and  looked  at  the  sketch. 

"  It  is  precisely  Giacomo,"  she  said. 

"  You  think  it  resembles  him  ? "  asked 
Haydon,  with  meek  diffidence. 

"  It  is  precisely  he,"  repeated  Ginevra.  She 
looked  at  Haydon  with  the  first  approving 
glance  she  had  bestowed.  "  The  Signore  has 
really  talent." 

The  often-praised  Paris  student  blushed. 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  a  subject  I  could  do  better  than 
this  I  If  you  would  let  me  make  a  head  of  you, 
Ginevra."  He  looked  at  her  with  studiedly 
impersonal  glance. 

Ginevra  returned  the  glance  in  kind  —  and 
with  better  success. 

"  To  take  away,  or  to  leave  here  ?  "  she  asked 
calmly. 

Haydon  was  confused. 

"We  could  decide  that  later —  To  leave 
here,"  he  added  hastily  as  he  saw  her  lift  the 
water-jar  once  more. 

9 


130  Couleur  de  Rose. 

But  Ginevra  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  not 
time  —  there  are  the  bambini"  She  lifted 
the  bronze  jar  and  walked  off  with  a  motion 
which  was  the  despair  and  delight  of  Haydon's 
eyes. 

There  were  always  the  bambini,  it  seemed  to 
him.  He  never  by  any  chance  caught  sight  of 
her  without  one  or  more  in  her  arms  or  hang- 
ing to  her  skirts ;  yet  there  were  only  three  of 
them  actually  :  Maddelena,  the  eldest  and  most 
beautiful,  jolly  little  Dino,  and  Margheritina, 
the  big-eyed  baby.  Ginevra  came  to  the  door 
one  day  with  this  last-named  bambina  in  her 
arms  and  a  black  shawl  over  her  head,  and 
Haydon  stopped  to  admire  —  the  baby. 

For  the  first  time  he  had  a  revelation  of 
Ginevra's  smile. 

"  Only  see  how  fat  she  is,  Signore,"  she  said, 
with  a  deft  gesture,  stripping  the  swaddling 
clothes  aside  and  revealing  a  pair  of  bare  and 
dimpled  legs  from  the  waist  to  the  toes.  "  Feel, 
feel,"  she  said  encouragingly.  Haydon  diffi- 
dently grasped  a  handful  of  dimples  and  fat 
and  was  rewarded  by  a  laugh  from  the  baby 
and  another  from  the  baby's  mother.  Then 
Ginevra  made  the  baby  in  all  its  unblushing 


Couleur  de  Rose.  131 

nakedness  dance  on  the  top  of  the  table  for 
Hay  don's  benefit,  and  the  baby  laughed  and 
Ginevra  laughed  and  they  cooed  to  one  another 
in  an  unknown  tongue,  ending  in  an  ecstasy  of 
kisses  beginning  at  the  baby's  head  and  termi- 
nating where  the  baby  terminated —  at  the  pink 
toes.  Haydon  stood  apart  and  watched  this 
holy  little  game  with  respect. 

Finally  Ginevra  wrapped  the  baby  uncere- 
moniously in  its  clothes  again  and  turned  to 
Haydon,  flushed  but  calm. 

"  Your  eggs  have  come,  Signore." 

Haydon  blushed  and  went  upstairs. 

But  he  stopped  often  after  that  to  admire 
Margheritina,  or  toss  Dino,  or  say  a  word  to 
Maddelena.  In  return  Ginevra  paused  to  cast  a 
glance  upon  his  canvas  or  bestow  a  condescend- 
ing word  of  approval. 

"  It  takes  a  large  head  for  that,"  she  remarked 
one  day,  gravely. 

Haydon  smiled  but  went  on  drawing.  Time 
had  taught  him  wisdom ;  he  knew  now  that  his 
only  hope  of  detaining  her  an  instant  was  to 
show  nothing  more  than  the  slightest  interest. 
A  glance  of  admiration,  the  tiniest  personal 
note,  would  cut  short  the  friendliest  interview, 


132  Couleur  de  Rose. 

and  though  he  was  as  far  as  ever  from  any 
prospect  of  painting  her,  he  experienced  so 
exquisite  a  pleasure  in  merely  looking  at  her 
that  he  would  not  imperil  it.  Besides,  he  did 
not  yet  despair ;  if  not  of  a  patient  nature,  he 
could  be  patient  when  there  was  an  end  to  gain. 
If  he  might  only  obtain  a  sitting,  any  kind  of 
a  sitting,  permission  to  sketch  her  head,  a 
chance  to  establish  the  dangerous  rapport  of 
artist  and  sitter,  he  thought  he  could  answer  for 
the  rest 

It  would  have  been  much  easier  if  Ginevra 
had  possessed  an  ordinary  share  of  vanity,  but 
so  far  as  he  was  able  to  discern  she  had  none. 
She  was  either  unconscious  of  her  beauty  — 
which  was  incredible  —  or  indifferent  to  it.  In 
short,  she  was  a  greater  mystery  to  Haydon 
every  day.  She  was  never  on  the  streets  like 
other  women  of  the  little  town,  cared  nothing  to 
make  a  bella  figitra,  for  which  alone  they 
appeared  to  exist,  and  pursued  a  nonchalant  and 
self-contained  life  of  her  own  in  which  neither 
Haydon  nor  any  other,  except  the  bambini,  bore 
a  part.  He  was  thoroughly  convinced  that  she 
had  a  history,  and  he  greatly  wished  he  knew 
who  her  husband  was. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  133 

We  have  an  easy  and  satisfying  way  of 
describing  a  man  as  "no  better  and  no  worse 
than  other  men."  Of  Haydon  this  was  quite 
literally  true.  He  was  no  better  than  other  men, 
and,  perhaps,  had  he  been  a  little  worse  than  he 
was  he  would  really  have  been  a  good  deal  bet- 
tar.  He  had  been  into  no  depths,  whether  of 
good  or  ill,  himself,  and  he  looked  for  no  depths 
in  others.  His  gifts  were  not  despicable ;  he 
had  the  artist's  sensitiveness  to  all  external 
things,  and  his  art  was  an  external  thing. 
Nature  had  bestowed  upon  him  the  eyes  and 
fingers  of  an  artist,  and  he  had  cultivated  both 
remarkably  well.  Nature  or  somebody  else  had 
also  bestowed  upon  him  a  brain  and  soul,  and 
he  had  not  cultivated  them  at  all.  He  had  been 
so  busy  in  becoming  an  artist  that  he  had  not 
had  time  to  become  a  man.  There  were  no 
dark  passages  in  his  life ;  in  fact,  there  was 
nothing  in  his  life  —  except  class-rooms  and 
studios  and  pictures  and  models,  and  an  over- 
whelming ambition  to  accomplish  something 
masterly  in  the  way  of  a  technical  feat.  To  this 
ambition  he  was  capable  of  sacrificing  much, 
undoubtedly,  and  Ginevra,  beyond  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt,  if  he  could.  But  his  evil  intentions 


134  Couleur  de  Rose. 

were  bounded  by  that,  —  to  bribe,  or  coax  or 
entrap  her  into  serving  as  his  model ;  and  if  it 
was  not  to  be  done  without  treading  upon  her 
scruples,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  scruples. 
Art  is  art,  and  where  else  in  the  wide  world  was 
he  to  find  a  woman  capable  of  standing  against 
the  rose  of  morning  and  eclipsing  it  with  her 
own  dawn  ? 

He  bided  his  time  with  a  grim  patience. 
Meanwhile  he  made  endless  sketches,  and 
painted  rose  sunsets  and  dawns,  in  spite  of 
Ginevra's  warnings  against  Maremma  mists. 

He  had  discovered  at  last  who  the  husband  of 
Ginevra  was,  —  a  waiter  at  one  of  the  hotels  in 
Milan.  With  the  summer  season  he  returned  to 
the  village  to  pursue  his  profession  in  the  one 
hotel  there. 

"  It  must  be  hard  for  you  to  be  apart  so  much," 
suggested  Haydon,  tentatively. 

Ginevra  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  What  would  you  ?  we  are  poor  people,"  she 
replied.  "  Here  are  your  eggs,  Signore." 

"  Probably  mighty  glad  to  be  apart,"  was 
Haydon's  mental  comment 

He  had  studied  the  populace  and  did  not 
admire  the  masculine  type.  There  was  a  great 


Couleur  de  Rose.  135 

deal  he  did  not  admire  in  the  place.  The  town 
itself  was  squalidly  miserable.  Haydon  had 
always  felt  in  Paris  that  nothing  could  be  so 
depressing  as  the  visible  contrast  of  very  rich 
and  very  poor.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  there 
was  one  thing  worse,  the  unadulterated  poverty 
of  the  Riviera  town.  Its  squalor  displeased,  its 
dirt  offended,  and  its  monotony  repelled  him. 
He  concluded  that  there  could  not  be,  and  he 
trusted  there  were  not,  two  places  on  the  habi- 
table globe  so  devoid  of  interest,  so  barren  of 
romance.  Even  the  sea  and  sky  wore  upon  him 
at  last,  and  he  wondered  why  he  still  stayed. 
He  dragged  himself  up  in  the  morning  with  a 
greater  effort  each  day,  and  ate  his  breakfasts 
and  dinners  with  a  keener  rebellion.  The  salt 
of  the  sea  and  of  his  eggs  had  alike  lost  its 
savor ;  yet  he  stayed. 

There  came  a  morning,  however,  when  he  did 
not  drag  himself  up.  All  night  long  Ginevra  in 
rose-colored  light  had  danced  before  his  eyes 
and  in  his  brain,  and  when  the  morning  rose 
came  flushing  the  room,  he  lay  and  watched  it 
and  took  it  for  a  continuation  of  his  dream. 
Presently  he  turned  his  head  —  carefully,  on 
account  of  the  rockets  and  Catherine  wheels 


136  Couleur  de  Rose. 

within  —  and  looked  at  the  little  clock  ticking  on 
the  night  table.  Its  hands  pointed  to  ten. 
Then  it  stole  over  Haydon  deliciously  that  he 
was  too  ill  to  rise  —  he  could  lie  there  and  starve 
at  his  leisure.  There  was  no  one  to  summon 
except  Ginevra,  and  he  would  not  summon  her. 
Besides,  his  every  earthly  desire  limited  itself  to 
that  of  lying  still,  knowing  that  Heaven  itself 
could  expect  nothing  else  of  him.  It  was  not 
his  duty  to  make  coffee  or  boil  eggs  or  scheme 
through  the  hours  of  another  day  how  to  entrap 
Ginevra  into  a  rose-color  study. 

There  is  sweetness,  no  doubt,  in  the  trium- 
phant moment  of  success,  but  the  moment  of 
entire  defeat  is  sweet  also.  Haydon  lay  with 
shut  eyes,  drawing  the  first  happy  breaths  for 
many  weeks.  To  have  purchased  that  peace  of 
spirit  for  an  indefinite  period  he  would  willingly 
have  compounded  with  his  splitting  head  and 
the  racking  heat  of  all  his  members.  He 
reflected  drowsily  that  in  case  he  grew  much 
worse  the  Misericordia  brotherhood  —  that 
strange  black-cowled  and  robed  fraternity  he 
had  so  often  admired  from  a  picturesque  point 
of  view  —  would  come  and  carry  him  away  to  a 
hospital  or  a  grave,  as  the  case  might  be ;  either 


Couleur  de  Rose.  137 

way  he  need  not  exert  himself  about  it.  Even 
pictures,  even  Ginevra  did  not  concern  him  now, 
and  as  for  the  Salon,  who  but  a  triple  idiot 
could  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  care  if  they 
painted  the  whole  thing  lavender  and  drab  ?  Yet 
there  was  color  in  the  world  ;  that  fact,  as  the 
most  daring  discovery  of  Haydon's  life,  asserted 
itself  even  at  this  moment  with  the  tenacity  of 
a  fixed  idea.  The  color  was  —  but  somebody 
else  could  paint  it ;  somebody  else  could  paint 
—  yes,  could  paint  —  Ginevra. 


138  Couleur  de  Rose. 


II. 


"  THE  next  time  I  say  Maremma  mists  the 
Signore  will  listen  to  me,"  said  Ginevra. 

Haydon  smiled  —  a  rather  wan  smile  still ;  and 
Ginevra  smiled  too,  but  with  a  twinkle  of  some- 
thing like  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  stooped  and 
blew  the  fire  to  a  brighter  blaze. 

"  And  now  what  will  the  Signore  have  to  eat  ? 
The  doctor  said  you  must  eat,  and  you  are  pale 
and  thin,  too  —  "  she  stooped  and  blew  the  fire 
again.  "  What  will  you  eat,  Signore  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,  Ginevra,"  answered 
Haydon,  gratefully.  "  I  have  been  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  you,"  he  added,  regretfully. 

Ginevra  laughed. 

"Oh,  altro!  trouble!— I  did  it  willingly. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  have  the  Signore  sick 
again.  Do  you  know  the  cause  of  it  all  ?  "  She 
fixed  her  eyes  severely  upon  Haydon. 

"  Maremma  mists,"  assented  Haydon,  meekly. 

"  That  is  true,"  assented  Ginevra,  "  but  also 


Couleur  de  Rose.  139 

eggs.  How  is  it  possible  to  keep  well  when  one 
eats  nothing  that  sustains  ?  —  always  eggs,  eggs !  " 
She  cast  a  disdainful  glance  at  the  basket 
which  was  wont  to  hold  the  dainty.  "And 
moreover  that  costs ;  eggs  are  dear,  now.  Do 
you  know  what  you  ought  to  eat,  Signore  ? 
broth,  good,  strong  brodo  of  meat." 

"  Ginevra,"  said  Haydon,  looking  squarely  at 
her,  "there  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  like  so 
much  as  broth,  but  you  see  yourself  I  cannot 
make  it  here." 

"  And  why  should  you  ?  "  said  Ginevra,  tran- 
quilly, "  to  make  a  little  broth  is  not  to  make 
the  kitchen.  If  you  like  to  have  me  buy  the 
meat  I  will  make  it  with  ours  when  I  make 
that  for  the  bambini ;  the  Signore  is  as  capable 
of  taking  care  of  himself  as  a  bambino" 

"Ah!  Ginevra,  if  you  would!  "said  Haydon, 
with  the  gratitude  of  weakness.  "  But  you  have 
too  many  bambini  to  take  care  of  already." 

"  Altro  !  —  one  more  or  less,"  replied  Ginevra, 
cheerfully  ;  departing  with  a  smile  which  Hay- 
don, his  head  upon  the  pillows  of  the  chair,  lay 
dreaming  upon  for  hours  after. 

He  had  lost  a  week  out  of  life,  but  a  week 
was  a  small  matter.  That  he  had  survived  the 


140  Couleur  de  Rose. 

drugs  of  the  Italian  doctor,  Haydon,  who  had 
the  aational  distrust  of  things  foreign,  attrib- 
uted to  the  counterbalancing  effects  of  Ginevra's 
nursing.  He  wondered  if  he  had  said  in  his 
delirious  wanderings  all  the  things  he  had 
thought  ;  but  he  reflected  comfortingly  that  he 
might  rave  in  his  Italian  with  nearly  the  same 
security  as  in  English.  What  did  he  know,  and 
it  was  the  only  thing  he  knew  clearly,  was  that 
he  had  been  tended  with  that  womanly  and 
tender  skill  which  he  had  supposed  to  inhere 
only  in  the  heart  of  his  own  mother,  but  now 
began  to  think  must  be  an  attribute  of  all 
womankind. 

There  was  in  his  heart  a  little  painful  sense 
that  he  had  not  deserved  this  at  the  hands  of 
Ginevra;  he  felt  strangely  guilty  toward  her. 
Certainly  he  had  intended  her  no  wrong ;  but 
that  did  not  prevent  a  conviction  that  she  would 
have  resented  his  intentions  as  a  wrong,  had 
she  known  them,  and  —  unaccountable  vagary 
of  a  sick  mind  —  to  save  his  so  lately  jeopar- 
dized life,  Haydon  could  not  help  feeling  himself 
that  they  had  not  been  precisely  an  honor. 

Meanwhile  Ginevra  had,  without  doubt, 
graduated  him  from  the  rank  of  her  lodger  to 


Couleur  de  Rose.  141 

that  of  her  patient ;  her  eyes  and  voice  had  a 
frank  kindliness  in  them  when  she  looked  or 
spoke.  It  was  evidently  not  in  her  nature  to  do 
things  by  halves.  In  vain  Haydon  remon- 
strated that  one,  or  that  two,  at  least  that  three 
dinners  in  a  day  were  enough ;  Ginevra  con- 
tinued tranquilly  to  appear  morning,  noon,  night, 
and  at  all  times  between,  with  soups  and  roasts 
and  pastas  and  risottos  and  all  the  other  savory 
dishes  an  Italian  alone  knows  the  secret  of ;  and 
she  had  but  one  reply  to  his  remonstrances,  — 

"  Signore,  you  are  to  eat!" 

And  Haydon  did  eat  Ginevra  regarded  him 
with  a  satisfied  air,  and  nodded  her  beautiful 
head  in  approval. 

"  That  sustains,  that  makes  strength ;  but 
eggs,  altro  !  " 

Haydon  blushed  to  think  how  very  low  he 
must  have  fallen  in  her  esteem  during  those 
weeks  before. 

Sometimes,  to  insure  her  patient's  eating, 
Ginevra  would  install  herself  cosily  by  the  fire- 
place and  enter  into  conversation.  Haydon  had 
a  fund  of  questions  ready,  about  the  place, 
the  people,  her  own  affairs  —  anything  to  detain 
her.  They  were  poor,  he  knew  that  already, 


142  Couleur  de  Rose. 

and  that  Ginevra  spent  her  evenings  sewing 
by  the  dim  lamp. 

"Finally,  there  are  others  poorer  than 
we,"  Ginevra  concluded,  philosophically.  She 
summed  up  the  character  of  the  town  which 
so  preyed  upon  Haydon,  in  two  phrases. 

"Are  most  of  the  sailors  and  fisher-folk 
poor?"  he  asked. 

"  They  are  all  poor,  Signore." 

"  And  are  there  many  sailors  and  fisher-folk 
in  the  town  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  sailors  and  fisher-folk, 
Signore." 

"  There  is  then  much  suffering,  Ginevra  ?  " 

"There  is  miseria  —  nothing  else!"  said 
Ginevra,  with  emphasis. 

Haydon  stroked  the  little  Maddelena's  head  ; 
there  was  always  one  or  more  of  the  children 
present 

"  This  bambino,  is  much  like  you,  Ginevra," 
he  said,  presently,  after  a  silence  in  which  his 
mind  had  reverted  from  the  town  at  large  to  the 
three  units  before  him. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Ginevra,  questioningly.  "  But 
this  one"  —  she  drew  Dino  to  her — "  is  the 
proper  image  of  his  father ;  all  the  world  says 


Couleur  de  Rose.  143 

so."  She  looked  at  the  child  a  long  moment, 
then  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him 
passionately.  "  It  is  himself !  "  she  murmured. 

Haydon's  hand  fell  from  the  little  Maddelena's 
head. 

"  She  loves  her  husband,"  he  thought. 

He  sat  blankly  staring  at  the  fire  long  after 
Ginevra  and  the  children  were  gone,  repeating 
it  to  himself. 

"She loves  her  husband  —  she  loves  her 
husband." 

Why  had  he  never  thought  of  it  before  ?  but 
who  -would  have  thought  of  it  ? 

He  carried  his  astonishment  through  the  next 
day,  and  at  night,  when  Ginevra  was  kneeling 
before  the  fire,  he  put  an  artful  question,  care- 
fully stirring  his  coffee  the  while  :  — 

"When  do  you  expect  your  husband, 
Ginevra?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  she  answered.  "  Perhaps  at 
the  capo  danno,  perhaps  in  February." 

"  I  hope  he  is  good  to  you,"  said  Haydon, 
abruptly. 

Ginevra  lifted  her  eyes  with  an  air  of 
astonishment. 

"  He  is  an  angel,"  she  said,  simply. 


144  Couleur  de  Rose. 

"  Tell  me  about  him,"  said  Haydon,  stirring 
with  great  care. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell ;  but  all  the  world 
knows  he  is  an  angel.  Five  years  we  made 
love,  and  we  are  married  five  years  now ;  truly 
an  angel  he  is."  She  gazed  into  the  fire 
dreamily  and  Haydon  watched  the  light  play 
over  her  face  and  throat. 

"  She  means  it,"  he  thought. 

Suddenly  Ginevra  raised  her  eyes.  "  And 
you,  S  ignore,  you  are  not  fidanzato  f  " 

"  No." 

"  There  is  nobody  you  love  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Haydon,  with  emphasis. 

"  Ah  !  "  Ginevra  looked  at  him  compassion- 
ately. "Then  you  do  not  know  —  you  will 
know  some  day,  but  you  do  not  know  now. 
There  is  nothing  like  it."  She  rose  from  her 
knees. 

"Not  even  the  bambini  f"  said  Haydon, 
jestingly,  while  with  studied  care  he  salted  his 
coffee. 

"  Ah  !  the  bambini  are  a  part  of  it."  Ginevra 
smiled  and  picked  up  Dino.  "  Matrimony  with- 
out children,"  she  added  gravely,  "  is  not  good." 
She  shook  her  head  as  she  went  out,  Dino 


Couleur  de  Rose.  145 

in  her  arms  crowing  affirmation  of    this  last 
sentiment. 

Haydon  mechanically  raised  his  cup  to  his 
lips  and  took  a  long  draught. 

"  She  loves  her  husband,"  he  repeated  to  him- 
self, as  he  set  the  cup  down,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  discovered  an  incredible  truth. 
He  looked  at  the  cup  some  time. 

"  That  is  her  story  —  she  loves  her  husband." 
He  lifted  the  cup  a  second  time  and  finished 
the  coffee. 

In  the  light  of  his  discovery  many  things  be- 
came intelligible  to  Haydon.  He  knew  now 
what  it  meant  when  Ginevra  came  into  his  room 
with  a  peculiar  brightness  of  eye  and  cheek ; 
it  meant  a  letter  from  Paolino.  He  understood 
now  her  disdainful  scorn  of  outside  diversions, 
why  she  was  content  to  sit  and  sew  beside  the 
sleeping  babies,  and  he  perceived  that  it  was  her 
romance  which  differentiated  her  from  the  other 
women  of  the  place.  He  had  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty in  accepting  the  facts  for  truth,  and  the 
truth  at  once  irritated  and  fascinated  him. 

To  live  five  in  a  room  and  be  so  happy ;  to 
live  QT\  polenta  andfarinata  and  be  so  happy  ; 
it  was  against  all  reason  —  but  it  was  true. 
10 


146  Couleur  de  Rose. 

"  Do  you  never  care  to  go  out,  to  dance  and 
enjoy  life  as  the  others  do,  Ginevra  ?  "  he  asked. 

Ginevra  lifted  her  head  disdainfully. 

"For  whom  should  I  dress  up  and  make  a 
bellafigura?  "  she  said.  "  I  have  my  husband 
and  the  children ;  it  is  a  pity  you  do  not  love 
somebody,  Signore,"  she  added  with  a  touch  of 
impatience ;  "  you  would  know,  then." 

At  present  she  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that 
she  considered  he  did  not  know  —  anything. 
Haydon  himself  began  to  feel  that  she  was 
right.  Certainly  he  knew  nothing  of  the  world 
of  love  Ginevra  moved  in,  where  familiarity  did 
not  breed  contempt,  and  poverty  was  the  nurs- 
ing mother  of  love. 

If  Ginevra  could  have  had  her  way  the  whole 
world  would  have  been  married  —  yes,  even  the 
priests  and  nuns ;  for,  remarked  this  good 
Catholic,  naively,  "  After  all,  they  are  Christians 
like  ourselves,  are  n't  they  ?  "  There  was  in 
Ginevra  a  quality  of  tranquil  and  unabashed 
innocence,  with  its  implied  candor  of  speech, 
before  which  Haydon  —  whom  the  life  of  Paris 
had  not  made  to  blush  — blushed  often.  He 
did  not  blush  for  Ginevra,  but  for  himself. 

"Ah,    well!"  remarked    Ginevra   one  day, 


Couleur  de  Rose.  147 

winding  up  a  dissertation  upon  the  iniquitous 
double  marriage  laws  of  Italy.  "  One  must 
think  for  others,  —  all  the  world  is  not  so  happy 
as  we  are." 

"  All  the  world  is  not,  indeed  !  "  said  Haydon, 
a  trifle  bitterly.  He  turned  to  his  portfolio  and 
began  tossing  over  the  sketches. 

Presently  he  became  conscious  of  Ginevra's 
eyes ;  she  was  standing  near  and  there  was  an 
unmistakable  disdain  in  her  expression  as  she 
regarded  the  undraped  figures.  She  said 
nothing,  however,  and  Haydon,  recalling  their 
design,  found  himself  confused  under  that  can- 
did glance.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all  his  pur- 
pose must  appear  as  nakedly  to  her,  —  and  for 
the  first  time  that  purpose  seemed  to  him  dis- 
honoring. 

"  Do  they  please  you  ? "  he  asked  at  last,  to 
break  the  embarrassing  silence. 

"  No  ;  "  replied  Ginevra. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  persisted  Haydon. 

"  The  Signore  has  talent,  but  those  do  not 
please  me,"  was  the  only  answer.  Her  lip 
curled  a  little,  and  somehow,  to  Haydon,  all 
those  obviously  unclad  women  looked  suddenly 
silly.  He  was  truly  relieved  when  Ginevra  left 


148  Couleur  de  Rose. 

the  room,  and  then  he  frowned  and  reminded 
himself  that  to  serve  art  was  a  glorious  destiny 
for  any  woman. 

It  might  be  so ;  but  something  in  him  never- 
theless kept  on  asserting  that  it  would  not  be  a 
glorious  destiny  for  Ginevra. 

"  This  is  perfectly  preposterous  ! "  he  said  to 
himself  angrily,  and  then  he  flushed  again  as  his 
eye  fell  upon  a  vase  of  roses  on  the  table. 

Maddelena  had  come  running  in  with  them 
that  morning,  and  Ginevra,  from  the  doorway, 
had  turned  the  gift  to  bitterness  before  he  had 
finished  thanking  the  child. 

"  The  Signore  is  very  fond  of  roses  ? "  she 
said. 

"  Very !  "  he  had  answered. 

"  Yes,  all  the  time  he  was  ill  he  talked  about 
nothing  else  but  'rose,  rose;'  we  have  been 
waiting  for  these  to  bloom;  they  are  the  first 
of  the  year." 

He  had  flushed  to  the  color  of  the  flowers 
then,  as  he  turned  to  put  them  in  water,  and  he 
flushed  again  now  in  recalling  it. 

"  I  must  be  losing  my  mind,"  he  thought 
indignantly,  later,  as  he  walked  through  the 
streets  of  the  little  town  which  now  had  become 


Couleur  de  Rose.  149 

as  eloquent  as  the  pages  of  a  book,  every  house 
a  paragraph  of  romance  or  tragedy.  Here  dwelt 
pretty  Bianca,  the  sewing  girl.  The  furniture 
stood  on  the  sidewalk,  and  Haydon  remembered 
that  the  family  were  sailing  for  Australia  to-mor- 
row, lured  by  promises  of  free  passage,  to  be 
worked  out  at  the  other  end.  He  foreboded 
tragedy,  but  pretty  Bianca  had  a  lover  who  had 
deserted  her  for  another,  and  she  was  glad  to  go. 
And  yonder  sat  Luigi's  old  mother  in  the  door- 
way. Luigi  had  shot  himself  last  week  after 
misappropriating  a  hundred  francs,  —  certainly 
misappropriating  it;  for,  instead  of  paying  it  in 
to  his  own  employer's  bank  account,  he  had 
paid  it  out  in  groceries  for  his  sister  and  her 
eight  children.  Twenty  dollars  seemed  to  Hay- 
don a  low  valuation  of  the  boy's  life,  —  a  dollar 
for  every  year,  —  but  the  boy  had  paid  it  with- 
out a  word.  In  this  house  Bandini's  wife,  the 
mother  of  sixteen,  lay  dying,  and  dying  so  slowly 
that  it  was  worst  of  all ;  it  made  dying  so  expen- 
sive, a  luxury  people  like  Bandini  cannot  afford. 
It  was,  however,  the  first  extravagance  of  her 
life.  Also,  Bandini's  house  was  painted  rose- 
color,  Haydon  noticed. 

The   whole  town    was    a    walking  tragedy. 


150  Couleur  de  Rose. 

With  a  sense  of  revolt  Haydon  turned  away. 
In  this  hungry,  starving,  fever  -  smitten  and 
destitute  world,  was  there  no  place  for  beauty  ? 
What  else  could  keep  life  above  the  brute 
level? 

He  arrived  at  the  question  and  the  shore 
together. 

Here  at  least  was  beauty.  The  storm  waves 
had  piled  the  drift  high  along  the  shore,  —  the 
Mediterranean  drift,  that  mystery  of  all  seas  ; 
neither  wood  nor  weed,  but  a  tangle  of  woods 
and  weeds,  and  coral  and  pumice  and  shells. 

Haydon  had  begun  collecting  shells  in  his  first 
leisure  days,  primarily  in  self-defence,  but  later 
fascinated  to  find  every  tint  of  the  changeful  sea 
crystallized  in  some  wee  convoluted  sea-dwelling 
or  fairy  form.  He  began  now  mechanically  to 
wander  back  and  forth,  picking  up  here  a  yellow, 
there  a  violet,  now  a  green,  and  now  a  rainbowed 
shell,  till  his  hands  and  pockets  were  filled. 
Here  was  beauty  the  universe  did  not  despise. 
He  stood  up  straight  and  looked  about  him. 

The  shore  was  covered  with  old  men,  boys, 
women,  and  girls,  but  chiefly  with  women  who 
should  have  been  girls  ;  each  in  a  short  skirt ; 
each  with  wooden  shoes  or  none ;  each  wearing 


Couleur  de  Rose.  151 

a  shawl,  Madonnawise,  over  her  head,  and  bear- 
ing in  her  arms  a  child.  With  the  disengaged 
hand  these  young  mothers  piled,  stick  by  stick, 
the  drift-wood  in  baskets  or  aprons,  stooping 
their  stately  forms  to  the  task.  They  might 
be  sixteen  years  old  —  these  young  Junos  —  for 
the  most  part.  The  wind  blew  their  scant  skirts 
and  shawls. 

One  of  them  came  to  Haydon. 

"  Ecco,  Signore,"  she  said,  with  a  frank  smile, 
holding  out  to  him  a  rosily  transparent  shell. 
She  had  sympathetically  noted  his  quest. 
"  Beautiful  things,  non  %  vero  f  " 

Haydon  pulled  off  his  hat  and  stammered  his 
"  Grazie." 

Poor  as  she  was,  he  did  not  insult  her  with 
money;  and  she  turned,  smiling,  to  her  drift- 
wood gathering  again.  Haydon,  the  rosy  shell 
in  his  palm,  looked  after  her,  at  the  whole  gigan- 
tic picture  of  the  sea  and  shore  and  sky  and 
moving  figures  of  the  drift-gatherers,  and  he 
looked  back  at  the  little  shell.  If  it  was  a 
parable,  it  was  a  gigantic  parable  as  well. 

When  the  time  is  ripe  a  moment  does  the 
work  prepared  by  centuries.  When  Haydon 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  shell,  for  the  first  time 


152  Couleur  de  Rose. 

in  his  life  he  looked  through  them,  not  with 
them. 

Great  events  are  often  quiet  events.  When  a 
star  rises,  when  a  flower  opens,  when  a  soul 
wakens,  it  makes  no  noise.  A  great  joy;  a  great 
terror,  or  a  great  disaster  produce  first  of  all  a 
great  hush.  And  greatness  is  a  relative  term. 
To  a  blind  man,  sight  is  a  great  event,  though 
all  the  world  should  combine  to  demonstrate  its 
unimportance  —  to  the  world. 

Haydon  went  home  very  quietly.  He  did  not 
call  for  his  lamp  as  usual,  and  it  would  have 
been  quite  dark  when  Ginevra  came  in  with  the 
lamp  in  her  hand,  but  for  the  unusually  bright 
fire  on  the  hearth.  Haydon  had  drawn  aside  the 
curtain  from  the  window,  and,  with  his  hands 
against  the  pane  and  his  forehead  on  his  hands, 
was  looking  into  the  gloom. 

Yes,  she  might  leave  the  lamp ;  yes,  he  was 
ready  for  his  supper. 

"  I  will  go  down,  then,  and  cook  the  little 
priest  He  will  not  take  long  to  fry,  and  he  is 
fresh  as  fresh." 

Haydon  did  not  reply.  In  the  first  place  he 
was  used  to  having  priests  on  his  table  and  in 
his  bed,  —  the  title  answered  for  everything,  from 


Couleur  de  Rose.  153 

a  fish  to  a  scaldino;  in  the  second  place,  he  did 
not  hear  the  cannibalistic  proposition.  He  was 
watching  Ginevra  and  thinking  to  himself : 

"  Had  I  been  an  artist  instead  of  a  finger- 
juggler  —  " 

And  as  he  stowed  the  empty  portfolio  behind 
his  trunk  his  lips  quivered  slightly. 


Couleur  de  Rose. 


III. 

"  What  in  all  the  world  do  you  most  wish  for, 
Ginevra  ?  "  asked  Haydon. 

She  was  dusting  the  room,  and  Haydon  had 
been  watching  her  over  his  book  ;  he  had  more 
often  a  book  than  a  brush  in  his  hand  now ; 
Ginevra  had  expressed  several  fears  that  he  was 
not  quite  well,  —  he  painted  so  little. 

"  A.  gobbino"  answered  Ginevra,  promptly. 

"  A gobbino  !  "  repeated  Haydon.  "  What  in 
the  world  is  a  gobbino  f  " 

Ginevra  laughed,  and  gave  him  to  understand 
at  length  that  a  gobbino  is  a  little  gobbo  and  a 
gobbo  is  a  dwarf,  but  that  the  particular  dwarf 
which  was  her  heart's  desire  was  but  an  inch 
high,  of  silver,  and  by  some  mysterious  leger- 
demain he  might  as  well  be  represented  by  two 
clasped  silver  hands  or  other  device. 

"  And  what  in  the  world  do  you  want  of  a 
gobbino  f"  asked  Haydon,  with  increase  of 
wonder. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  155 

"It  brings  good  fortune!" — there  was  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye  as  she  said  it,  with  which 
Haydon  was  acquainted. 

"  You  don't  believe  that,  Ginevra  ? " 

Ginevra's  eyes  twinkled  the  more,  and  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Chi  lo  sa  f  "  she  said,  merrily.  "  I  should 
like  the  gobbino,  the  same." 

Haydon  had  never  yet  fathomed  the  depths 
of  Ginevra's  common  sense  ;  it  was  rare  and 
unusual  as  she  herself  was  rare.  Her  store  of 
superstition  and  proverbial  wisdom,  in  which 
she  was  rich  as  every  Italian  is,  invariably  ran 
over  on  either  side  into  visible  incredulity  or 
irresistible  enjoyment  of  an  absurdity.  It  was 
his  delight  to  make  her  talk,  —  for  the  talking  of 
Ginevra  was  like  a  running  stream  of  poetry; 
she  appeared  to  speak  in  blank  verse  by  nature, 
and  did  it  with  the  air  of  its  being  as  simple  for 
her  as  the  common  and  unadorned  speech  of  the 
world  to  inferior  mortals.  Her  spontaneity  was 
not  the  least  of  her  attributes.  This  walking 
book  of  poetry  fascinated  Haydon's  ear,  and  he 
encouraged  conversation,  —  for  the  sake  of  his 
Italian. 

There  had  been  purpose  in  Haydon's  question. 


156  Couleur  de  Rose. 

Christmas  was  at  hand,  and  on  the  day  before  it, 
Haydon  went  to  Pisa.  He  had  long  decided 
what  to  give  the  children ;  a  dainty  dress  for  the 
little  Margheritina  (for  even  an  Italian  baby,  he 
was  persuaded,  would  rather  make  a  bellafigura 
than  have  the  choicest  doll  on  earth) ;  a  toy  cart 
for  Dino ;  and  for  both  children  all  the  sweets 
Ginevra  would  countenance.  As  for  Maddelena, 
her  gift  was  not  to  come  from  Pisa;  it  had 
been  wrapped  up  in  Haydon's  trunk  for  a  week 
past.  He  sacrificially  matched  ribbons  and 
compared  shades  and  accumulated  packages  all 
day,  but  the  errand  upon  which  he  spent  him- 
self was  the  gobbino.  Pisa  presented  none  wor- 
thy of  his  fastidiousness.  He  walked  over  her 
three  times,  and  investigated  every  jeweller's 
shop  at  least  twice,  in  the  effort  to  find  a  really 
choice  gobbino  —  a  gobbino  of  the  gobbini —  such 
a  gobbo  as  might  most  infallibly  incarnate  good 
fortune.  He  found  one  at  last,  and  carried  the 
misshapen  silver  creature  home  in  triumph. 
He  endeavored  to  console  himself  for  the  de- 
formity of  his  gift,  which  cost  him  an  artistic 
pang  or  two,  by  the  daintiness  of  the  box  in 
which  he  encased  it.  He  was  as  impatient  as 
a  child  for  the  morning  to  come,  and  summoned 


Couleur  de  Rose.  157 

Ginevra  and  the  children  at  the  earliest  permis- 
sible hour. 

It  was  pretty  to  see  the  dark  eyes  of  Madde- 
lena  dilate  with  rapture  above  the  rose-color 
crepe  and  soft  silken  ribbons  which  Haydonlaid 
in  her  arms ;  the  ecstatic  music  of  her  voice 
quite  overran  Dino's  vociferous  tones.  There 
was  an  incipient  Ginevra  in  Maddelena,  and 
Haydon  accepted  the  bacino  of  the  woman-child's 
rosy  lips  with  reverence. 

"  Oh,  Signore  !  "  Ginevra  found  voice  to  say 
at  last,  "  it  is  much  —  much  too  beautiful  —  you 
should  not  have  given  it." 

"  You  will  make  her  a  festa  dress,  Ginevra," 
said  Haydon.  "  One  may  wear  anything  for 
festas,  and  —  it  is  very  suitable." 

Haydon  alone  knew  how  suitable,  —  this  ex- 
travagantly inappropriate  gift.  Ginevra  shook 
her  head,  but  her  eyes  delighted  openly  in  the 
beautiful,  soft  fabric.  It  was  charming  to  see 
the  change  from  that  mother-sweetness  to  very 
childlikeness  in  her  face  when  Haydon  awk- 
wardly produced  the  gobbino  and  invoked  a 
buona  for  tuna  for  her.  She  was  as  rosy  and 
pleased  as  Maddelena. 

"Oh,  what  a  beautiful  little   gobbino,    Sig- 


158  Couleur  de  Rose. 

nore !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Grasie  !  Grazie  /  "  — 
then  her  eyes  suddenly  brimmed  over  with 
laughter. 

"  You  must  wear  it,  Ginevra,"  said  Haydon, 
"  that  it  may  bring  all  the  good  fortune  possible, 
—  you  know  you  believe  it." 

Ginevra's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Chi  lo  sa?"  she  said. 

Haydon  never  forgot  that  Christmas  Day. 
He  permitted  himself  to  go  in  and  out  perpetu- 
ally, and  Ginevra  prepared  an  unusual  feast  for 
him,  and  —  grace  as  unusual  —  she  lingered 
through  it,  gravely  confiding  to  him  how  she 
had  it  in  her  mind  to  make  up  that  rose-color 
gown.  The  little  Maddelena  was  wild, — 
"  absolutely  fiazza "  about  it,  and  she  had 
promised  the  child  to  make  it  up  for  Easter, 
but  whether  with  a  point  behind  or  in  front, 
and  whether  with  a  little  gamitura  of  ribbon  or 
only  a  girdle,  she  was  seriously  in  doubt,  —  she 
wished  it  to  be  of  a  simplicity,  but  also  of  a 
graciousness.  She  leaned  thoughtfully  upon 
the  chair  opposite  Haydon,  and  fastened  her 
large  eyes  upon  distance ;  Haydon's  own  drank  in 
the  perfectly  unconscious  pose  and  countenance 
thirstily.  She  seemed  to  him  to  incarnate  every 


Couleur  de  Rose.  159 

phase  of  womanhood.  Maidenhood,  wifehood, 
and  motherhood  had  left  upon  her  their  suc- 
cessive crowns,  and  the  power  of  none  of  them 
had  ever  passed  away ;  she  contained  the  sweet- 
ness and  charm  of  all  three.  In  her  was 
summed  —  for  Haydon  —  the  awe,  the  wonder, 
the  majesty,  and  the  simple  delight  of  woman- 
hood; his  eyes  and  heart  acknowledged  her, 
and  appropriated  her  fearlessly.  She  was  not, 
indeed,  fit  to  subserve  a  color  scheme,  but  very 
fit  to  serve  Art. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  be  better  after  all,  with  a 
point  both  behind  and  in  front  ?  "  said  Ginevra, 
turning  her  eyes  gravely  upon  him.  Haydon 
dropped  his  own. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  be  better  so,"  he  assented 
as  gravely. 

That  afternoon  Haydon  drew,  — he  drew 
without  fatigue  or  hesitancy,  with  a  kind  of 
jubilation  in  every  stroke ;  the  pencil  sang  in 
his  hand,  and  when  he  stopped,  with  the  light, 
he  looked  at  his  work  a  long  moment.  Then  he 
turned  it  to  the  wall  and  threw  himself  upon  the 
sofa.  His  pulse  was  going  like  a  trip-hammer, 
his  lips  burned ;  but  the  conscious  strength  of 
ten  men  was  in  him.  Only  an  artist  knows. 


160  Couleur  de  Rose. 

He  did  not  count  the  moments,  the  half-hours, 
the  hours.  Some  one  pushed  open  the  door. 

"  Signore  !  "  said  the  voice  of  Ginevra,  in  a 
tone  which  made  Haydon  leap  to  his  feet.  He 
was  still  in  his  dream.  He  went  to  her  with 
both  hands  out. 

Ginevra  did  not  see  them. 

"  He  is  coming  !  "  she  cried.  "  He  will  be 
here  this  evening."  She  looked  at  him  with 
triumphant  eyes.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  Che  bella 
fortitna  !  —  it  is  your  gobbino  I  " 

Haydon  laughed. 

The  supper  and  the  lamp  came,  and  the 
supper  was  duly  eaten,  Ginevra  moving  about 
the  while  with  a  certain  abstraction  Haydon 
made  no  effort  to  disturb.  When  she  left  the 
room  he  took  up  a  book,  sat  down  near  the 
lamp  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  page,  but 
the  clock  ticked  with  such  an  annoying  per- 
sistency that  reading  was  almost  impossible. 
He  wondered  he  could  ever  have  endured  that 
noise,  —  that  infernal  noise ;  every  beat  seemed 
to  fall  upon  one's  brain.  He  rose  and  set  the 
door  ajar,  —  the  racket  downstairs  was  better 
than  this,  —  and  coming  back,  sat  down  again 
and  fixed  his  eyes  again  upon  the  same  page. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  161 

They  remained  fixed  so  for  seventeen  minutes 
by  the  clock,  then  the  reader's  cheek  paled. 
There  was  a  new  sound  below  —  hurrying  steps 
—  the  opening  of  a  door  —  a  low,  bird-like  cry  ; 
Haydon  started  to  his  feet  and  shut  the  door 
with  a  slam.  He  remained  leaning  against  it 
breathlessly,  his  cheek  paling  and  flushing,  his 
heart  pounding,  as  if  he  expected  that  noise  to 
force  its  way  in ;  then  with  set  teeth  he  went 
deliberately  forward,  picked  up  the  book,  and 
sat  grimly  down  again.  This  time  the  book 
was  upside  down. 

Half  an  hour  later  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"  Come  in  ! "  said  Haydon,  without  raising 
his  eyes. 

The  door  opened  and  Ginevra  appeared. 
She  had  a  scaldino  in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes 
were  lustrous ;  she  kept  them  turned  from  the 
Signore,  and  going  to  the  fireplace  began  in- 
dustriously to  pile  up  the  fallen  wood,  and  brush 
together  the  embers.  Presently,  the  tongs  in 
her  hands,  and  still  kneeling,  she  flashed  one 
glance  over  her  shoulder.  Haydon  was  not 
looking,  but  his  eyes  went  over  the  top  of  the 
book  to  meet  it 

ii 


162  Couleur  de  Rose. 

Ginevra  laughed,  one  low,  sweet  laugh,  and 
all  the  color  went  in  a  splendid  wave  over  the 
face  of  this  ten  years'  sweetheart,  this  five 
years'  bride. 

"At  present,"  she  said,  "there  is  a  man  in 
the  house." 


Couleur  de  Rose.  163 


IV. 

MADDELENA  was  ill.  Ginevra  had  worn  that 
transfigured  face  about  the  house  but  three 
days  when  the  child  sickened,  and  to  the  feast 
of  the  Nativity  succeeded  days  of  gloom. 

Haydon's  trunk  was  already  packed  for 
departure,  and  so  it  stood  ever  since.  Not 
until  now  had  he  realized  how  much  his  heart- 
strings were  entwined  about  the  child  who  was 
her  mother's  miniature.  For  Ginevra,  —  she  was 
as  one  distraught ;  only  one  presence  had  any 
power  to  soothe  her,  and  Haydon,  whose  glance 
had  fallen  with  a  certain  disdain  at  first  upon  the 
gentle  face  of  Ginevra's  husband,  learned  to 
look  to  him  as  a  tower  of  strength  in  the  sad 
days  which  followed.  He  was  only  a  poor  little 
Tuscan  cameriere,  but  he  had  known  how  to 
make  one  woman  perfectly  happy. 

For  himself  he  walked  the  streets  of  the  town 
and  argued  with  himself  the  impossibility  that 
Maddelena  should  die.  Maddelena,  the  image 


164  Couleur  de  Rose. 

of  Ginevra,  the  first-born  of  Ginevra,  the  child 
whose  very  essence  must  have  the  vitality  of 
love.  There  were  hundreds,  yes,  thousands  of 
children  in  the  place  who  could  be  spared; 
there  could  not  be  in  the  universe  a  cruelty  so 
blind  that  it  would  pass  over  these  and  strike 
at  the  first-born  of  Ginevra.  Day  after  day 
Haydon  came  out  of  the  sick-room  where 
Maddelena,  with  scarlet  lips,  lay  gasping  for 
breath,  and  persuaded  himself  thus;  and  day 
after  day  he  crept  home  to  stand  long  on  the 
steps,  summoning  his  courage  before  he  could 
open  the  door. 

The  child  knew  him  always.  When  they 
asked  her  what  she  wished : 

"  The  rose  ribbon  of  my  Signore." 

"  Drink,  —  the  Signore  sends  it  to  you,"  they 
said,  and  the  parched  lips,  opening  for  nothing 
else,  would  open  at  that  charm  to  swallow  the 
medicine,  —  and  these  things  wrung  Haydon's 
heart.  He  would  creep  away,  choking  down 
something,  to  persuade  himself  anew  that  there 
was  justice  on  earth  and  mercy  in  heaven. 

There  was  neither.  On  the  fifth  evening 
Ginevra  fled  into  his  room,  her  eyes  enormous, 
her  lips  pallid. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  165 

"  They  will  not  let  me  go  to  her  ! "  she  said. 
"  They  will  not  let  me  go  to  her  !  She  is  dying, 
and  they  will  not  let  me  stay  !  Dio  Mio  I  Dio 
Mio!  Mercy!"  There  were  sobs  that  made 
Haydon's  heart  stand  still. 

The  disease  had  taken  a  malignant  form. 
Death  was  slowly  strangling  life  from  the 
bright  little  body  downstairs,  and  the  doctor, 
merciless  as  Fate,  had  forbidden  the  mother  to 
come  near,  for  the  sake  of  Dino  and  the  baby. 

Haydon  pressed  his  hands  together. 

"  My  God,  it  is  too  much!  " 

Suddenly  Ginevra  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
at  him.  The  sobs  stopped,  and  Haydon's 
heart. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  there  will  be 
no  more  Maddelena  in  the  world." 

Haydon  covered  his  face.  "My  God!"  he 
cried  again. 

Ginevra's  eyes  stared,  and  her  lips  murmured 
continually. 

"  So  beautiful  —  my  little  daughter  —  so 
strong  —  and  they  will  not  let  me  stay  — 
Maddelena  —  my  figliuola" 

Haydon  knelt  beside  the  chair ;  he  drew  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder  and  stroked  her  hair. 


166  Couleur  de  Rose. 

Ginevra  neither  resisted  nor  noticed,  —  her  eyes 
still  stared  and  her  lips  murmured  unintelligibly. 

Haydon  continued,  mutely,  to  stroke  her 
hair ;  he  was  no  more  than  a  pillow,  —  than  that 
stuffed  chair  back  to  her,  and  he  asked  only  of 
heaven  and  earth  that  it  would  comfort  Ginevra, 
somehow  —  anyhow. 

Presently  the  sobs  ceased ;  Ginevra  rose,  — 
he,  too,  rose  humbly.  She  pressed  her  hands 
together  and  drew  her  shawl  close,  shivering,  as 
if  cold. 

"  I  must  not  cry,  —  for  the  baby,"  she  said 
exhaustedly ;  "  I  must  not "  —  she  turned  away. 

Haydon  opened  the  door  for  her.  On  the 
threshold  she  stopped ;  her  eyes  dilated  with  a 
suppressed  agony. 

"  If  she  dies,"  —  she  paused.  "  If  she  dies," 
she  said  again,  "  I  will  make  her  the  rose-color 
dress.  She  was  fiazza  to  wear  it  —  and  she 
shall  wear  it  —  my  figliuola  —  my  little  daugh- 
ter," —  she  caught  her  breath  sharply.  Haydon 
stood  humbly  watching  the  broken  figure  depart. 
It  was  a  little  thing  that  his  own  heart  seemed 
broken,  too. 

He  paced  his  room  half  the  night,  listening 
for  sounds  from  below,  and  in  the  dawn  he 


Couleur  de  Rose.  167 

threw  himself  dressed  upon  the  bed.  When  he 
awoke  the  sun  was  shining.  He  arose  and 
went  hastily  down  stairs.  The  first  person  he 
met  was  Paolino,  his  arms  full  of  fire-wood. 

Haydon  gripped  the  banisters  and  stammered 
out: 

"  The  child  ?  " 

"  Dead  !  "  replied  Paolino,  with  an  indescrib- 
able gesture. 

Haydon  bowed  his  head.  Paolino  turned 
away  quietly  and  piled  the  wood  beside  the  fire- 
place. His  gentle  face  was  paler  than  usual, 
and  there  were  hollows  under  his  eyes,  but  his 
manner  was  as  quiet  and  contained  as  always. 
Haydon  looked  at  him,  —  this  man,  younger  than 
himself,  and  separated  from  him  by  the  immeas- 
urable dignity  of  love  and  fatherhood  and  sor- 
row for  a  first-born. 

From  a  paste-board  world,  or  more  truly  a 
world  of  paint  and  canvas,  Haydon  had  stepped 
into  a  world  where  things  were  real ;  where  peo- 
ple lived  what  he  had  dreamed,  and  dreamed 
with  a  child's  comprehension  only;  where  the 
least  was  his  superior,  by  so  much  as  one  fact 
of  experience  which  shakes  the  soul  is  better 
than  a  million  fancies  which  skim  through  the 


1 68  Couleur  de  Rose. 

brain.  He  [was  a  man  in  nothing  but  years, 
whom  this  little  cameriere  would  have  been 
entitled  to  look  upon  from  his  heights  of  human 
experience  with  contempt. 

He  did  not  look  upon  Haydon  with  contempt, 
however,  but  with  a  grave  compassion. 

"  Will  you  see  the  child,  S ignore  ?  "  he  asked. 

Haydon  followed  mechanically  into  the  room. 
There  was  a  strong  odor  of  disinfectants,  and 
the  little  body  was  stretched  rigidly  on  the  bed. 
With  hands  that  trembled  slightly,  the  young 
father  drew  away  the  handkerchief  from  his 
child's  face.  The  purple  shadow  of  death  was 
there.  After  a  moment  Paolino  replaced  the 
handkerchief. 

"  God  has  taken  her  ! "  he  said.  He  turned 
away. 

He  opened  a  door,  and  Haydon,  obeying  a 
gesture,  followed  into  the  next  room  where  Gi- 
nevra  sat  in  exile.  There  was  a  fire  in  the  fire- 
place,—  for  the  first  time  in  years, — and  Ginevra 
sat,  or  lay  in  a  chair  near  it,  her  head  thrown 
back  against  the  cushion,  and  a  black  handker- 
chief about  it,  —  the  Mater  Dolorosa. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ? "  she  asked,  without 
greeting,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  Haydon. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  169 

He  bowed  assent. 

"  They  will  carry  her  to  the  Campo  Santo  at 
three,"  she  murmured. 

"  To-day ! "  Haydon  started. 

Ginevra  trembled. 

"  It  is  necessary ! "  said  Paolino.  He  laid  his 
hand  very  quietly  upon  Ginevra's  head  and  she 
became  still.  It  was  the  only  shadow  of  a  caress 
Haydon  ever  beheld  between  them.  "  It  is  the 
nature  of  the  malady,"  the  young  Tuscan  con- 
tinued quietly  ;  "  the  body  may  not  stay  in  the 
house." 

And  at  three,  accordingly,  Haydon  alone  of 
the  household  followed  Maddelena  to  the  Campo 
Santo.  It  was  a  pathetic  little  procession,  by 
reason  of  its  poverty.  Twelve  little  girls  in 
nondescript  dresses  carried  candles  and  bore 
the  little  bier;  six  priests  preceded  it.  Haydon 
had  often  observed  that  priests  seemed  to  be  the 
one  thing  the  town  was  rich  in.  The  little  bier 
was  covered  with  a  pink  table-cloth,  and  one 
poor  little  borrowed  wreath  of  artificial  flowers. 
Haydon  followed  to  the  church,  where  the  tiny 
coffin  was  sprinkled  with  holy  water ;  longer  it 
was  not  suffered  to  remain  there  ;  thence  he  fol- 
lowed to  the  Campo  Santo  and  stood  beside 


170  Couleur  de  Rose. 

while  Ginevra's  child  was  laid  in  her  last  bed 
and  the  dust  heaped  over  her. 

There  was  no  more  Maddelena  in  all  the 
world. 

The  bells  were  still  ringing  when  he  returned 
to  the  house. 

In  the  room  to  the  right  as  he  entered  he 
could  see  Ginevra,  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
Paolino  walking  gently  up  and  down  with  the 
baby  in  his  arms. 

He  went  up  to  his  own  room  and,  shutting 
the  door  behind  him,  looked  about  with  the 
gaze  of  one  who  has  been  long  away. 

That  evening  Ginevra  came  to  Haydon's 
room ;  there  was  a  rose-color  heap  in  her  arms, 
at  which  Haydon  looked  with  amazement.  Gin- 
evra's face  was  white ;  her  eyes,  in  amends, 
were  darker  than  ever  in  their  violet  circles. 
She  laid  the  rose-colored  heap  on  the  table. 

"They  would  not  let  her  wear  it,"  she  said, 
"  for  reason  of  the  malady.  They  wrapped  her 
in  a  sheet  with  something  —  my  Maddelena  —  " 
She  paused  a  moment.  Otherwise  — "  she 
stopped  again. 

Haydon  did  not  speak. 


Couleur  de  Rose.  171 

Presently  Ginevra  held  up  the  rose-color 
gown  ;  it  was  trimmed  with  cotton  lace,  shirred 
and  tortured  into  a  little  robe,  and  in  the  other 
hand  she  held  a  bonnet,  also  of  rose  color. 

"  She  would  have  been  so  beautiful,  and  she 
was  pazza  to  wear  it —  "  There  was  mingled 
admiration  and  anguish  in  her  eyes  and  voice. 

Hay  don  looked  at  the  ghastly  little  bonnet 
and  thought  of  the  rigid  child's  face  beneath  the 
sod,  and  he  shuddered. 

Suddenly  Ginevra  put  them  down ;  her  face 
quivered. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  them  ! " 

"Give  them  to  me,  Ginevra." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  moment, 
—  then  Ginevra  laid  the  gown  and  bonnet  in 
Haydon's  arms. 

"  Take  them,"  she  said.    "  She  loved  you." 

Haydon  turned,  lifted  out  the  tray  of  his 
trunk,  and  with  very  great  care  laid  the  small 
gown  and  bonnet  in,  —  so  small  they  looked 
there  ! 

Ginevra  standing  by  watched  him  with  min- 
gled wonder  and  envy. 

"  You  can  weep,"  she  said,  "  but  I  cannot 
weep  any  more.  There  is  the  baby." 


172  Couleur  de  Rose. 

"  Yes,"  said  Haydon. 

"  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  Ginevra,  suddenly,  "  we 
were  too  happy !  When  Paolino  dressed  in  the 
morning  he  sang,  and  when  I  went  to  make  the 
coffee  I  sang.  We  had  everything  in  the  world, 
and  it  was  too  much  like  heaven  —  we  were 
too  happy  —  there  must  be  some  cross." 

Haydon  was  still  kneeling ;  he  gazed  up  at 
her  without  a  word. 

And  so  kneeling  he  saw  the  shadow  of  some- 
thing too  deep  for  a  smile,  but  partaking  of  its 
gladness,  sweep  into  Ginevra's  face.  She  looked 
down  at  Haydon. 

"Imagine,  he  has  done  everything  to-day! 
washed  the  dishes,  made  the  broth,  —  every- 
thing; he  would  let  me  do  nothing."  There 
was  a  wondering  ecstasy  in  her  tone.  "  An 
angel !  "  she  said,  turning  away.  "  Proprio  un 
angelo  —  my  husband !  "  The  trait  of  wonder- 
ing tenderness  was  still  upon  her  face  as  she  left 
the  room,  —  a  Mater  Dolorosa  with  a  look  no 
Mater  Dolorosa  ever  wore. 

Haydon  knelt  still  before  the  trunk.  So 
strangely  it  looked,  that  little  garment  of  a  child 
among  his  man's  possessions.  It  did  not  speak 
only  of  the  dead  baby,  but  of  a  thousand  possi- 


Couleur  de  Rose.  173 

bilities  of  an  infinitely  human  tenderness.  In 
every  man  there  is  latent  the  instinct  for  those 
ties  which  relate  him  to  humanity,  capable  of 
being  awakened  by  a  touch.  And  to  a  strong 
man  there  must  be  always  something  touching 
in  the  first  association  of  a  being  feebler  and 
frailer,  with  himself,  in  that  unconscious  appeal 
which  the  most  trifling  possessions  of  a  beloved 
woman  or  child  seem  to  wear.  Just  as  every 
woman  who  has  loved  hides  in  her  heart  some 
little,  dumb,  rapturous  memory  of  the  first  time 
a  man's  hat  or  coat  hung  intimately  beside  her 
own,  or  his  gloves  lay  upon  her  dressing  table. 
The  prose  of  life  is  no  such  prose,  after  all; 
every  pair  of  lovers  know  it. 

Some  hint  of  all  that  may  be,  all  without 
which  art  is  barren  and  life  is  not  life,  came  to 
Haydon  with  that  tiny  gown  and  bonnet.  He 
did  not  formulate  the  experience  or  analyze  it, 
but  it  remained  with  him. 

When  his  thoughts  came  back  to  the  child 
who  was  dead,  and  to  Ginevra,  to  the  pitiful 
shirred  robe  and  betrimmed  bonnet  meant  to 
adorn  death,  his  eyes  brightened  with  the  tender- 
est  smile  they  had  ever  worn.  It  was  so  human 
—  it  was  so  especially  Italian  —  that  wish  to 


174  Couleur  de  Rose. 

make  a  bellafigura  even  in  the  grave.  Ginevra 
herself  could  not  escape  it,  and  it  had  certainly 
added  a  little  sting  to  a  great  agony  that  Mad- 
delena  might  not  have  had  the  rose  color  gown 
and  candles.  He  thought  of  the  pink  table- 
cloth and  borrowed  wreath.  Poor  Ginevra! 
It  could  only  have  been  a  special  tenderness 
which  sent  the  next  inspiration  to  Haydon  ;  but 
he  himself  marvelled  at  his  own  stupidity  in  not 
earlier  divining  what  must  be  the  secret  longing 
of  Ginevra's  heart.  A  funeral  wreath,  —  yes,  of 
course.  Never  in  the  world  would  they  be  able 
to  afford  one ;  the  little  grave  and  the  doctor's 
bill  meant  strict  denial  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
in  simple  necessaries,  and  Haydon  had  been 
long  enough  in  Italy  to  know  how  slightly  es- 
teemed are  all  natural  flowers  in  comparison 
with  the  wire  and  paper  and  metal  substitutes 
which  make  gay  the  Campa  Santos  on  every 
festa.  Ginevra  should  have  the  finest  Pisa 
could  furnish  forth,  and  in  time  for  her  darling's 
first  Sunday  in  the  grave. 

The  next  morning  he  went  to  Pisa,  on  what 
he  felt  to  be  the  most  appropriate  errand  that 
had  ever  taken  him  there.  He  hated  the 
"widowed  city;"  it  affected  him  like  a  living 


Couleur  de  Rose.  175 

tomb  of  which  the  loathsome  frescos  of  the 
Campo  Santo  were  the  appropriate  decorations. 
Before,  he  had  come  to  buy  rose-ribbons  and 
silver-charms ;  more  than  once  he  had  wondered 
fantastically  whether  the  purchase  of  \ho.gobbino 
there  had  not  endued  it  with  the  fatality  of  the 
wretched  city  and  converted  it  from  a  beneficent 
into  an  evil  talisman.  But  now,  standing  in  a 
dark  warehouse  in  a  gloomy  back-street,  while 
two,  four,  half  a  dozen  men  pulled  out  box  after 
box  of  funeral  emblems  and  hung  them  about 
him,  Haydon  had  a  sense  of  the  utter  fitness  of 
the  place  to  the  occasion. 

It  was  a  grotesque,  —  unless  it  was  a  pathetic 
scene  which  Haydon  made,  as  surrounded  by 
the  emblems  of  pure  ugliness  this  devotee  of 
pure  beauty  earnestly  bent  himself  to  seeing  with 
the  eyes  of  Ginevra  which  of  all  these  horrors 
was  most  truly  beautiful.  He  interested  himself 
in  the  designs,  studied  the  coloring,  contem- 
plated with  serious  feeling  the  ornate  embel- 
lishments. He  had  a  strong  instinct  that  she 
would  think  the  ivy  (it  must  be  ivy)  too  sombre, 
and  the  potato-plant  (it  could  be  nothing  else) 
appeared  too  gay.  The  shopman  uncovered 
the  eighteenth  box. 


176  Couleur  de  Rose. 

"  I  will  take  that ! "  said  Haydon  quickly,  and 
he  felt  a  pang  at  the  heart. 

It  was  a  garland  of  pale  pink  roses  set  in 
silver  leaves,  with  a  tiny  white  pea  running 
over  both  ;  the  whole  blushed  delicately  rosy,  — 
a  thing  to  delight  Ginevra's  heart.  Haydon 
scarcely  heard  the  shopman  who  was  pointing 
out  the  immense  advantage  this  wreath  possessed 
over  all  other  wreaths  ;  how,  in  fact,  it  might  be 
truly  called  a  double  wreath,  —  and  if  one 
regarded  it,  behold,  there  was  a  space  especially 
designed  to  hold  the  photograph  of  the  dead  one. 
The  stupefaction  of  the  man's  face  was  curiously 
blended  with  profound  sympathy,  as  Haydon 
paid  his  price  and  walked  off,  merely  requesting 
that  the  wreath  be  forwarded  without  delay. 
He  judged  Haydon  to  be  a  sorely  smitten  man, 
since  he  had  not  haggled  for  even  one  franc  of 
the  ten  he  —  the  shopman  —  was  prepared  to 
take  off. 

The  wreath  arrived  nearly  as  soon  as  Haydon 
himself.  Bandoni,  the  ever-faithful,  brought  it 
up  through  the  cold  rain  in  a  box  half  as  large 
as  himself,  and  Haydon  hastily  thrust  a  two-franc 
bit  into  his  hand,  to  be  rid  of  him.  To  his 
horror  the  great,  burly  creature  burst  into  tears. 


Couteur  de  Rose.  177 

Haydon  looked  in  amazement  from  him  to 
Ginevra.  Could  even  the  Italian  heart  lavish 
such  sympathy  upon  the  funeral  wreath  of 
another  ? 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Bandoni,  between  his  strong  sobs, 
"  pardon,  —  these  two  francs  are  two  angels  to 
me  to-day." 

Ginevra  apparently  understood;  she  wiped 
her  eyes. 

"  Poverino .'  "  she  said.  "  It  is  that  his  wife 
is  really  dying  to-day  —  and  with  eight  bambini 
—  and  nothing  in  the  house  —  one  imagines !  " 

Haydon's  soul  revolted. 

"  Ginevra,"  he  cried,  "is  there  nothing  — 
nothing  but  misery  in  this  place  ?  " 

Ginevra  looked  at  him,  and  at  the  wreath,  and 
at  him. 

"  Not  much  !  "  she  answered  a  little  bitterly, 
then  her  face  changed.  "  Perd"  she  said,  "  there 
is  something," 

Her  own  tears  fell  softly  on  the  wreath,  — a 
wreath  beautiful  beyond  dream.  Never  had  she 
seen  one  so  delicately  fine,  and  her  eyes  divined 
at  once  that  place  for  the  portrait.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  see  that  there  was  in  her  heart 
a  sad  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  the  "bella 

12 


iy8  Couleur  de  Rose. 

figura  "  her  darling  would  make  in  the  Campo 
Santo. 

"  And  the  best  is,"  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands  in  her  old,  impetuous  way,  "  Maddelena 
will  be  so  pleased.  She  will  see  we  do  not  for- 
get her,  —  my  figliuola  /  "  —  "  My  little  daugh- 
ter !  "  —  it  was  a  whole  poem  of  love  and  longing. 

"  There  are  still  the  two,  Ginevra,"  said 
Haydon.  "  And  God  will  send  you  others." 

"  As  many  as  He  will,"  answered  Ginevra, 
quickly.  "  We  thought  the  three  enough, 
but  now —  as  many  as  He  will.  One  can 
always  live  on  polenta  —  Paolino  says  it,  too  — 
there  can  never  be  too  many.  And,  forme  —  if 
there  were  twelve  —  they  would  all  be  his" 
She  bent  to  replace  a  silver  leaf. 

"  I  am  going  home  to-morrow,  Ginevra,"  said 
Haydon,  after  a  moment. 

"  Going  !  "  repeated  Ginevra ;  a  little  shadow 
of  regret  crossed  her  face.  "It  is  another 
sorrow  for  us  ;  the  bambino,  loved  you ;  but,  it 
is  true  you  cannot  stay  always." 

"  You  will  not  forget  me  wholly,  Ginevra  ?  " 

"  We  shall  never  forget  you,"  replied  Ginevra, 
quietly.  She  touched  the  wreath  again.  "  You 
are  leaving  us  this  for  a  ricordo,  Signore." 


Couleur  de  Rose.  179 

That  night  Haydon  packed  his  things,  for  the 
train  was  to  leave  early  in  the  morning.  He 
was  up  before  the  dawn,  and  stole  softly  from 
the  house,  having  promised  himself  to  behold 
the  last  sunrise  from  the  shore. 

It  rose  as  if  conscious  of  the  watcher.  Hay- 
don, with  the  early  breeze  stirring  his  uncovered 
hair,  stood  watching  the  daily  miracle.  Peak 
after  peak  flushed  slowly,  the  shore  and  the 
water  put  on  light  as  a  garment,  the  earth  glowed, 
and  the  heavens  bloomed  before  the  watching 
eyes  like  a  gigantic  flower.  There  flashed 
through  Haydon's  mind  the  phrase  : 

"  God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn." 

When  he  went  back  to  the  house  he  opened 
the  door  softly,  not  to  awaken  any ;  but  as  he 
stepped  in  noiselessly  and  shut  the  morning  out 
behind  him,  a  more  blinding  vision  flashed  to 
meet  him  from  the  dimness. 

The  door  to  the  left  was  ajar,  and  through  it 
he  beheld  —  he  could  not  choose  but  behold  — 
Ginevra.  She  was  sitting  up,  with  the  long, 
dark  masses  of  her  hair  about  her  shoulders, 
and  her  baby  at  her  breast.  But  it  was  the 
light  of  her  face  alone  which  struck  Haydon's 


i8o  Couleur  de  Rose. 

consciousness ;  the  rest  came  back  to  him  after- 
ward as  remembered  details.  She  was  not  look- 
ing at  the  baby;  her  head  was  raised,  and  she 
looked  beyond  with  such  a  rapture  of  love  and 
wonder,  as  if  she  beheld  a  miracle. 

At  the  same  moment  Haydon  heard  a  foot- 
fall entering  the  room ;  he  collected  himself  with 
an  effort  and  went  upstairs. 

He  was  still  bending  above  the  shawl-strap 
when  Ginevra  came  in  with  his  coffee,  and  an 
apology,  considerably  later. 

"  Imagine,  Signore,"  she  said,  as  she  put  the 
tray  on  the  table,  "why  I  am  so  late?"  She 
hesitated,  evidently  between  a  sweet  shame  and 
the  irresistible  need  of  telling.  She  looked  at 
him,  blushed  a  little,  and  her  eyes  positively 
laughed  for  the  first  time  since  the  child's  death. 
Haydon  noted  the  promise  of  returning  joy. 

"  It  is,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  I  was  not  very 
well,  and  my  husband  would  have  me  stay  in 
bed  while  he  brought  me  coffee.  Imagine, 
coffee  in  bed  !  as  if  one  were  a  Signora  !  "  The 
irresistible  triumph  of  happiness,  a  happiness 
almost  incredulous  of  itself,  was  in  her  accent. 
Her  eyes  challenged  him  to  acknowledge  this 
marvel  beyond  experience  or  belief,  —  a  husband 


Couleur  de  Rose.  181 

who  brought  one  coffee  in  bed  !  —  a  husband 
who  loved  one  like  that ! 

The  last  moment  found  Haydon  its  equal. 

"  There  is  no  one  like  him,  Ginevra,"  he  said. 
"  No  one.  I  am  thankful  you  are  his." 

A  voice  called  from  below  that  the  carriage 
waited. 

"  Finish  your  coffee,  Signore  ;  there  is  time," 
said  Ginevra.  "  I  will  send  the  man  up  for  your 
baggage."  She  turned  to  the  door.  On  the 
threshold  she  paused  and  turned  to  look  over 
her  shoulder  at  Haydon  once  more.  The  un- 
touched cup  stood  before  him ;  his  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  her. 

"  Imagine  only,"  she  murmured, "  one's  coffee 
in  bed  !  as  if  one  were  a  Signora ! " 


A  STRANGE    DINNER-PARTY. 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 


THE  HON.  SIR  HARRY  RANDOLPH  TO  THE 
EARL  AND  COUNTESS  OF  RANDOLPH. 

BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS,  176-. 

My  Dear  Father  and  Mother,  —  I  have 
taken  passage  on  the  good  ship  Fortunatus, 
which  sails  for  England  next  week.  I  write 
this,  taking  advantage  of  the  cutter  Stephen  /?., 
which  His  Excellency  Governor  Bernard  hath 
just  apprised  me  will  leave  these  parts  for 
Liverpool  at  full  tide. 

I  am  the  happiest  man  alive.  I  bring  you 
home  the  fairest  bride  that  ever  trod  the  Ran- 
dolph halls,  the  sweetest  daughter  in  England. 

I  beseech  you,  my  honored  parents,  to  sus- 
pend alike  your  consternation  and  anger  while  I 
relate  to  you  the  whole  tale.  'T  will  not  take 
long,  and  I  know  you  not  if  you  do  not  then 
declare  that  I  have  acted  as  becomes  a  son  of 
our  house  and  an  English  gentleman. 


1 86        A  Strange  Dinner- Party. 

I  have  already  written  you  touching  the  out- 
come of  the  business  with  which  it  hath 
pleased  our  Gracious  Master  the  King  to  entrust 
me,  and  I  will  not  now  take  space  to  dwell  upon 
these  matters,  save  to  say  that  I  have,  I  believe, 
met  with  as  much  success  as  could  be  looked 
for,  when  one  taketh  into  account  the  troublous 
nature  of  the  times  and  the  fixed  and  unbending 
character  of  these  people  with  whom  I  have  to 
deal.  Of  a  truth,  they  are  as  proud  and  stiff- 
necked  a  set  as  I  have  yet  in  all  my  roving 
about  the  world  encountered. 

You  are  already  conversant  with  the  manner 
of  my  stay  in  Boston,  and  that  I  was  well 
received  and  most  honorably  entertained,  each 
man  vying  with  his  neighbor  in  who  should 
show  me  the  greatest  courtesy.  For  my  part, 
I  trust  I  have  not  borne  myself  altogether  ill,  but 
as  became  a  gentleman  of  the  Court. 

At  the  balls  and  routs  I  have  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the 
most  respected  gentlemen,  many  of  whom,  I 
protest,  would  do  honor  to  the  highest  court- 
circles,  for  wit,  beauty,  and  skill  in  all  feminine 
arts.  By  far  the  fairest  of  them  all  is  Mistress 
Dorothy  Wentworth.  There  is  not  a  gallant  in 


A  Strange  Dinner- Party.         187 

Boston  who  hath  not  wasted  his  sighs  and 
prayers  at  her  feet  and  had  for  all  answer  to  his 
importunities  her  sweet  disdain,  until  —  but  I 
anticipate. 

Her  father  is  that  upright  and  austere  John 
Wentworth  of  whom  England  hath  heard,  the 
leader  in  all  the  stirring  policy  of  the  colony :  a 
man  of  great  natural  parts,  of  profound  states- 
manship, of  a  bearing  so  noble  and  lofty  that 
it  would  not  misbecome  a  Minister  of  State. 
Much  dealing  have  I  had  with  this  gentleman  in 
the  courts  of  publick  affairs.  It  were  impossible 
not  to  look  upon  him  with  esteem.  Mistress 
Dorothy  is  his  only  daughter,  and  in  that  her 
mother  died  in  giving  her  life,  the  tie  between 
father  and  child  hath  been  peculiarly  tender. 
From  the  first  she  received  my  gallantries  gra- 
ciously, though  she  hideth  under  all  her  gayety 
a  quiet  dignity  which  remindeth  one  oddly  of 
her  grave  father.  Still  she  was  all  condescen- 
sion, wit,  and  beauty,  with  an  unaffected  charm 
and  naturalness  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  I 
forget  that  you  will  see  for  yourself  ere  long  and 
laugh  at  my  poor  efforts  to  describe  what  no 
man  could. 

I  have  no  space  to  dwell  upon  the  days  and 


1 88        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

weeks,  the  balls  and  routs,  the  walks  and  drives, 
in  which  Mistress  Dorothy  and  I  were  thrown 
together.  It  sufficeth  that  I  loved  her  ere  I 
knew  it,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  did  look 
upon  me  with  favor.  'Twas  not  long  ere  I  was 
her  acknowledged  cavalier  in  all  the  routs  and 
merry-makings,  and  so  one  day  I  woke  to  find 
that  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me  to  her ! 
The  knowledge  which  at  first  filled  me  with  a 
great  joy  soon  grew  to  terror  and  remorse,  for 
I  bethought  me  who  and  what  I  was ;  how  that 
I  was  the  last  of  a  great  line  in  whom  were 
many  noble  houses  centred,  the  heir  of  all  the 
lands  and  titles  which  have  been  the  pride  of 
our  family  for  centuries,  bound  by  every  obliga- 
tion alike  of  honor  and  of  duty  to  wed  within 
mine  own  class  and  estate,  and  so  preserve  the 
purity  of  descent  unbroken.  I  thought  of  you, 
my  dear  father  and  mother,  of  how  such  a 
mesalliance  would  go  near  to  break  your  hearts 
and  bow  your  gray  hairs  with  sorrow ;  and  I 
thought  of  my  young  sisters  and  brothers.  And 
then  I  thought  of  Dorothy !  And  when  her 
sweet  face  in  all  its  loveliness  and  purity  and 
native  pride  (the  sweetest  ever  earth  saw)  came 
before  me,  and  I  knew  how  't  was  but  the  faint 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         189 

shadow  of  her  inner  purity  and  loveliness,  my 
heart  seemed  like  to  break  that  she  could  never 
be  my  wife.  For  my  wife  she  never  should  be 
—  I  swore  it  then  —  whatever  it  might  cost  me, 
for  the  faith  in  which  I  was  bred  was  strong 
within  me,  that  a  great  heritage  like  mine  was 
but  a  trust  which  a  gentleman  must  hand  down 
with  undimmed  lustre  to  his  heirs  after  him. 
This  must  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor  do  ; 
how  much  more  I,  who  held  in  keeping  the 
honor  of  so  many  noble  lines.  I  swore  it  to  my- 
self, and,  for  I  feared,  even  while  I  madly  hoped 
it,  that  Dorothy  loved  me,  —  I  resolved  also  to 
keep  away  from  her,  but  by  degrees,  so  that  she 
might  not  guess  it.  And  since  I  would  not 
awaken  any  suspicion,  and  had  been  that  night 
bidden  to  sup  at  Wentworth's  (and  as,  moreover, 
my  eyes  were  aching  for  a  sight  of  hers),  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  courtesy  and  prudence  alike 
counselled  my  going  for  this  one  time,  which  I 
did,  and  was  so  winningly  received  by  Mistress 
Dorothy  that  I  came  home  in  worse  case  than 
ever. 

Like  reasons  found  I  for  accepting  an  invita- 
tion to  dine  with  Master  Quincy,  where  I  sat 
next  to  Dorothy  (not  Mistress  Dorothy  Quincy, 


190        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

but  my  Dorothy,  in  a  pale  blue  gown  which  set 
off  her  wild-rose  face)  ;  and  so  it  went.  There 
was  ever  a  reason  why  I  must  needs  go,  and 
that  place  at  which  I  was  to  draw  the  line 
remained  ever  in  the  future.  And  so  I  saw 
more  and  more  of  the  maiden  and  more  and 
more  madly  loved  her  from  day  to  day. 

All  might  still  have  been  well  had  I  not,  with 
a  folly  for  which  there  is  no  account  but  a  lover's 
insanity,  accepted  the  invitation  of  His  Excel- 
lency's friend,  Master  Bradford,  to  pass  some 
days  with  him  at  his  house  in  the  town  of  Bristol, 
in  the  colony  of  Rhode  Island,  some  miles  from 
Boston.  You  must  know  that  this  is  a  small 
town,  for  the  possession  of  which  there  hath 
been  much  controversy  between  the  two  colonies 
till 't  was  settled  by  his  Majesty's  Commissioners 
in  favor  of  Rhode  Island.  Yet  many  of  the  fine 
gentlemen  of  Boston  retain  their  stately  residen- 
ces and  great  farms  there ;  and  of  this  number 
are  Wentworth  and  Bradford.  Indeed,  'twas 
there  Dorothy  was  born,  and  she  hath  loved  the 
spot,  I  do  believe,  as  well  as  we  in  England  our 
ancestral  houses. 

Master  Bradford  having  done  me  the  honor 
to  invite  me,  I  made  haste  to  accept.  Dorothy 


%  A  Strange  Dinner- Party.         191 

and  her  father  had  already  gone  down  to  Bristol, 
Wentworth  being  called  there  on  pressing  busi- 
ness, and  I  knew  none  could  keep  him  long  from 
Boston.  We  made  the  journey  by  stage,  and 
what  with  the  cold,  the  badness  of  the  roads, 
and  the  lateness  of  the  season,  't  was  no  holiday 
trip,  I  promise  you,  and  we  were  all  content  to 
reach  Bradford's  house,  where  warm  rooms  and 
dinner  and  good  cheer  awaited  us. 

It  wanted  a  week  to  Christmas,  and  Bradford 
having  much  to  attend  to  in  the  town,  where  he 
hath  great  influence  and  dignity,  it  fell  naturally 
that  I  mounted  my  horse  daily  and  rode  over  to 
Wentworth's  mansion  (the  finest  in  all  the  town) , 
where  a  pair  of  lovely  eyes  grew  ever  brighter 
at  my  arrival  and  a  little  hand  gave  itself  more 
and  more  willingly  into  mine  own.  It  chanced 
that  Wentworth  as  well  as  Bradford  was  much 
occupied,  so  Dorothy  and  I  spent  the  greater 
part  of  this  week  together,  and  what  qualms  and 
pricks  of  conscience  I  had  were  all  too  readily 
dissipated  in  the  sweetness  of  her  society  ;  the 
more  readily  as  I  had  resolved  that  upon  my 
return  to  town  I  would  make  haste  to  leave  these 
parts  forever.  You  will  blush  for  my  conduct 
and  think  I  must  have  been  mad  indeed ;  but  as 


192        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

I  live  I  think  myself  to  have  been  swayed  by  a 
wiser  power  than  my  own,  and  that  my  folly  was 
but  obedience  to  the  higher  reason  within  me 
which  would  not  hearken  to  that  senseless  thing 
I  had  set  up  and  called  my  duty. 

However  that  may  be,  I  went,  and  at  last 
't  was  Christmas  Eve.  I  was  spending  it  with 
Dorothy,  for  Bradford  had  set  me  down  there 
on  his  way  to  some  publick  meeting,  and  had 
carried  Wentworth  with  him.  You  must  know 
that  there  is  a  strange  freedom  in  these  New 
England  households,  and  the  young  men  and 
maidens  are  left  much  to  one  another's  society; 
yet  have  I  never  heard  that  such  freedom  is 
abused,  rather  it  doth  tend  to  a  certain  respectful 
equality  between  the  two. 

I  was  bidden  to  a  great  dinner  on  the  morrow 
at  Wentworth's,  in  my  honor.  Dorothy  had 
named  over  to  me  all  the  great  personages  who 
were  to  be  of  the  company,  with  much  merry 
gossip  thereon,  and  I  had  sung  her  the  latest 
English  ballad  to  her  accompaniment  on  the 
spinnet ;  and  so  at  length  we  drew  near  the  fire, 
—  and  my  heart  was  hotter  than  it !  Never  had 
she  been  so  gracious  and  tender,  so  that  I  could 
read  her  whole  heart  in  her  eyes. 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         193 

As  we  stood  together,  the  tall  clock  in  the  hall 
struck  ten.  "It  groweth  late,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  I  marvel  what  keepeth  my  father  and  Mr. 
Bradford  so  long." 

"  Hath  the  evening  been  so  tedious,"  I  an- 
swered with  a  glance  of  playful  reproach,  "  that 
you  call  it  late  ?  Also,  you  forget  't  is  Christ- 
mas Eve." 

"  Christmas  Eve  !  "  Dorothy  repeated.  "  We 
observe  it  not  in  New  England.  They  say  'tis 
a  popish  practice ;  yet  I  confess  I  would  fain 
see  it  once.  Tell  me,  Sir  Harry,  if  you  were 
now  in  England,  how  would  you  pass  this 
evening  ?  " 

I  sent  my  fancy  back  to  the  English  Christ- 
mases  at  Randolph,  and  told  her  at  length  of 
the  gathering  there  would  be,  —  how  the  old 
halls  would  be  decked  in  holly,  and  there  would 
be  feasting  and  merry-making  of  all  kinds. 
Nay,  while  I  talked,  methought  I  was  there  with 
you. 

"  'T  is  fine,"  said  Dorothy,  with  a  sigh,  when 
I  had  done.  "  I  would  like  well  to  see  it,  though 
it  be  but  popery.  This  is  but  a  dull  Christmas 
Eve  for  you,  Sir  Harry,"  she  added,  with  a 
demure  glance  at  me  above  her  fan. 
13 


194        A  Strange  Dinner- Party. 

"  T  is  the  happiest  I  ever  spent ! "  cried  I  so 
vehemently  that  she  was  all  confused,  and  the 
fan  slipped  from  her  fingers.  The  sight  of  her 
confusion  and  blushes  undid  me  utterly.  She 
stooped  to  pick  up  her  fan,  but  I  was  before  her, 
and  caught  both  it  and  her  hand  together,  and 
kissed  her  hand  passionately.  Then  looking  up 
and  seeing  in  her  eyes  no  anger,  but  a  sweet 
consenting,  all  the  madness  of  the  past  month 
mounted  straight  to  my  brain,  and  before  I  knew 
it  I  had  caught  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  her 
lips  again  and  yet  again. 

I  came  to  my  senses,  and  releasing  her,  drew 
back  and  knew  myself  for  the  basest  wretch  on 
earth.  She  was  all  rosy  and  confused. 

"  Sir  Harry,"  saith  she,  "  Sir  Harry  "  —  and 
stood  blushing. 

Ah,  how  I  cursed  my  lack  of  manhood  !  for 
even  then  the  habit  of  my  life  was  strong  in 
me,  so  that  I  saw  but  the  one  step  to  be  taken. 
I  took  her  two  hands  in  mine  with  a  profound 
respect,  but  dared  not  raise  my  shamed  eyes  to 
her  face. 

"  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said  I,  "  I  have  gone 
mad  utterly.  Forgive  me  !  I  pray  you,  forgive 
me!" 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         195 

"What  mean  you,  Sir  Harry?"  she  faltered 
so  sweetly  that  I  looked  up  perforce,  and  saw 
that  in  her  face  which  made  me  feel  a  thousand 
times  the  worse.  I  dropped  my  eyes  again.  "  I 
mean  that  I  love  you,  Dorothy,  with  all  my 
heart,"  I  said  fervently;  "and  that  I  pray  you 
to  pardon  me,  —  I  pray  you,  Dorothy  ! " 

Now  I  truly  thought  I  had  told  it  all,  instead 
of  which  a  wonderful  light  dawned  suddenly  in 
the  maiden's  face.  "  Sir  Harry,"  saith  she,  so 
low  and  falteringly  that  I  could  scarce  hear  it, 
"  there  doth  —  need  no  pardon  —  where  is  —  no 
offence." 

"  Dorothy,  Dorothy  !  "  cried  I,  now  grown 
fairly  desperate.  "  Thou  dost  not  understand. 
I  love  thee  —  love  thee,  —  shall  ever  love  thee  ; 
but  I  am  bound  hand  and  foot.  I  cannot,  I  can- 
not,—  thou  dost  not  understand!"  Thank 
Heaven !  for  very  shame  my  tongue  failed  me  ; 
and  I  could  say  no  more,  But  'twas  enough. 
I  saw  Dorothy's  face  grow  suddenly  white. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  saith  she,  with  a  thrill  of 
awakening  fear  and  pride.  "  What  is  it  I  do 
not  understand,  Sir  Harry?"  She  would  have 
drawn  away  her  hand,  but  I  held  it  fast,  and 
kissed  it  passionately  ;  and  between  my  kisses  I 


196        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

moaned  rather  than  said,  "  Dorothy,  my  love, 
my  darling,  why  am  I  not  free  to  wed  as  other 
men?  Must  I  give  thee  up?  Must  an  earldom 
and  a  title  come  between  thee  and  me  ?  " 

Her  small  hands  were  torn  rather  than  drawn 
away  from  mine. 

"Yes,  Sir  Harry  Randolph,  it  must!"  said 
she,  like  ice,  and  I  saw  her  face  with  such  a  look 
as  it  had  turned  to  marble ;  and  then  I  knew 
that  she  had  comprehended  the  slight  I  had 
put  upon  her,  and  that  her  pride  had  received 
a  mortal  wound.  At  which,  losing  sight  of 
what  sense  remained  to  me,  I  cast  myself  madly 
upon  my  knees  before  her. 

"  Dorothy  !  "  I  cried,  "  Dorothy  !  Look  not, 
so  !  Thou  does  not  know  !  I  love  thee  with 
my  whole  heart.  I  shall  love  thee  till  I  die. 
'T  is  the  bitterness  of  death  that  I  cannot  wed 
thee!  Naught  else  should  come  between  us; 
but 't  is  my  honor  is  engaged,  —  the  honor  of  a 
great  name  I  hold  in  trust." 

Worse  I  could  not  have  said. 

"  Sir  Harry,"  saith  she,  with  blazing  eyes, 
"are  you  mad  indeed?  Or  perchance  this  is 
the  Christmas  mumming  you  were  telling  me 
of?  I  would  fain  remind  you  that  I  am  no 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         197 

English  lady  to  understand  it,  but  plain  Puritan 
Dorothy  Wentworth.  Up,  sir,  up,  for  shame  ! 
Father  1" 

She  stopped  short,  all  quivering  with  splendid 
indignation. 

"  Master  Bradford  awaiteth  you,  Sir  Harry 
Randolph,"  said  Wentworth,  coming  quietly 
forward,  speaking  in  his  accustomed  measured 
tones.  "  And  as  't  is  late,  he  will  not  enter,  but 
sendeth  thee  good-night,  Dorothy,  by  me." 

He  spoke  so  calmly  that  I  could  not  for  the 
life  of  me  judge  whether  he  had  overheard 
aught,  and  if  it  were  by  chance  or  design  that  he 
had  placed  himself  by  Dorothy,  who  stood  now 
white  and  silent  at  all  her  slender  height. 

There  was  nothing  but  to  make  my  adieus  as 
I  best  could,  which  I  did  without  knowing  how, 
and  was  bowing  myself  stumblingly  out  of  the 
door  when  Wentworth's  stately  tones  reached 
me:  — 

"  Forget  not,  I  pray  you,  sir,  that  you  are  to 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  Dorothy,  hast  thou 
reminded  Sir  Harry  ?  Join  with  me  in  assuring 
his  lordship  that  we  are  sensible  of  the  honor 
he  will  do  us."  And  now  I  knew  Wentworth 
had  heard  all. 


198         A  Strange  Dinner- Party. 

"  Right  willingly,  father,"  answered  Dorothy, 
proudly,  —  how  like  the  two  were!  "I  pray 
you,  forget  it  not,  my  lord ! " 

What  I  muttered  I  know  not,  and  forth  I 
stumbled  into  the  night.  Nay,  I  will  not  dwell 
upon  that  time.  Heaven  save  I  should  e'er 
pass  such  another !  Never  was  man  so  miser- 
ably torn  between  loyalty  to  his  love  and  loyalty 
to  the  house  from  which  he  sprung,  and  the 
illustrious  name  he  bore  and  the  parents  who 
bore  him.  For  the  result,  —  the  tale  shall 
tell  it. 

It  was  a  bitter  Christmas  Day,  though  with- 
out snow  ;  and  most  strange  it  seemed  to  be 
wakened  by  no  bells  ringing  to  service,  no 
sounds  of  Christmas  festivity  and  observance, 
all  such  being  eschewed  by  the  Puritans  as 
"  relics  of  popery,"  which  they  abhor. 

It  was  noon  when  we  reached  Master  Went- 
worth's  house,  Master  Bradford,  his  good  lady, 
and  I  being  driven  thither  in  his  coach  drawn 
by  four  fine  horses.  Wentworth's  slaves  in 
livery  stood  waiting  for  us  at  the  entrance  gates, 
which  they  threw  open  at  our  approach.  My 
heart  beat  like  to  burst  through  my  waistcoat  as 
we  drew  up  at  the  steps  of  the  mansion,  at  the 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         199 

head  of  which  stood  Wentworth  and  Mistress 
Dorothy  surrounded  by  the  guests  of  impor- 
tance and  the  entire  household  assembled  in 
my  honor.  Among  them  was  His  Excellency 
Governor  Hopkins  of  Rhode  Island.  Me- 
thought  Wentworth  never  looked  more  impos- 
ing. Beside  him  stood  my  sweetheart,  paler 
than  her  wont,  but  every  whit  as  stately  in  her 
maiden  grace,  attired  in  a  robe  of  pale  blue 
brocade,  —  a  sight  to  set  my  poor  heart  at  a 
madder  dance  than  ever  ! 

All  this  I  saw  as  we  drew  up  to  the  door. 
The  wheels  had  scarce  stopped  grating  on  the 
gravel  and  the  slaves  jumped  from  their  seats 
ere  Wentworth  himself  advanced  and  threw  open 
the  carriage  door. 

"  Madam ! '  said  he  with  a  profound  and 
stately  obeisance,  "  Gentlemen  !  you  are  right 
welcome  to  my  poor  house  !  Do  me  the  honor 
to  enter !  " 

"Sir,"  replied  Bradford,  descending,  "the 
honor  is  ours  ! " 

Wentworth  then  gave  his  arm  to  the  Madam 
Bradford,  and  we  followed  up  the  steps. 

"  Mistress  Dorothy,  your  humble  servant ! " 
said  Bradford,  saluting  her.  I  bowed  in  silence 


2OO        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

above  the  ice-cold  little  finger-tips  which  just 
touched  my  hand.  For  my  life  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  raise  my  eyes  to  the  proud-set  face. 
The  one  glimpse  from  the  carriage  had  sufficed 
to  steal  all  my  courage  from  me. 

"Enter  first,  Sir  Harry!"  said  Bradford's 
jovial  voice.  "  Nay,  I  protest !  —  "as  I  would 
have  had  him  pass  before.  "  As  the  represent- 
ative of  His  Majesty,  meet  it  is  you  should  take 
precedence  of  his  humble  servant."  And  not  to 
make  further  words  I  followed  our  host  between 
the  rows  of  liveried  servants  into  the  great 
drawing-room,  where  a  mighty  fire  blazed  upon 
the  hearth. 

Bradford  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Ha  !  "  said 
he,  "  't  is  a  welcome  sight  on  such  a  day,  a  good 
New  England  fire !  You  will  see  naught  finer, 
Sir  Harry,  in  Old  England." 

"  You  forget,  sir,"  I  rejoined,  trying  to  answer 
with  suitable  spirit  and  lightness,  though  in 
truth  I  scarce  knew  what  I  was  saying  while 
yonder  stood  my  sweetheart  as  cold  and  stately 
as  an  ice-maiden,  —  "you  forget  there  will  be 
many  such  a  blazing  hearth  this  day  throughout 
England,  and  ever  while  there  are  hearts  to  love 
and  hands  to  light  the  yule-log ! " 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         201 

Now  had  I  indeed  done  it!  Bradford  and 
Master  Wentworth  each  drew  himself  up,  and 
there  was  a  look  of  disapproval  on  every 
face. 

"In  truth,"  said  Bradford,  coldly,  "you  re- 
mind us  in  season  of  what  we  had  fain  forgotten, 
Sir  Harry,  that  England  still  countenanceth  the 
mumming  and  trickery  of  popish  observance." 

"  Well  were  it  for  her,"  added  Wentworth, 
severely,  "  and  better  fitting  a  land  of  Christian 
men  and  women,  that  every  hearth  in  England 
should  show  chill  and  fireless  to-day  than  be 
lighted  up  for  such  ungodly  revels  ! " 

Now  indeed  I  knew  not  which  way  it  became 
me  to  look,  when  a  new  bustle  of  arrivals 
diverted  all  eyes  to  the  door  and  away  from  my 
hapless  self.  I  was  still  thanking  Providence 
for  that  good  fortune,  as  I  stood  warming  me 
at  the  grateful  blaze,  wondering  in  my  mind  to 
whom  I  should  most  safely  address  myself,  since 
I  had  no  wit  to  guard  my  tongue  that  day. 

"  You  found  your  drive  but  a  cold  and  cheer- 
less one,  I  fear  me,  sir,"  said  a  sudden  clear, 
low  voice  at  my  elbow,  so  that  I  started  violently 
and  was  like  to  have  overset  the  small  table 
which  stood  near. 


2O2        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

"  I  crave  a  thousand  pardons,  Mistress 
Dorothy,  for  my  awkwardness,"  I  said,  while 
all  my  heart  rose  up  with  hope  and  gratitude, 
construing  her  speech  as  a  sign  of  forgiveness. 
"  I  have  been  chilled,  't  is  true,  —  but 't  is  gone." 
What  more  I  would  have  said  died  away  un- 
spoken, for  she  met  the  speaking  glance  I  gave 
her  all  steadily,  nor  did  a  line  of  her  face  change. 

"  In  truth,"  she  answered,  in  her  sweet,  cold 
tones,  "  I  am  glad  of  it.  'T  is  a  warming  blaze. 
Our  New  England  forests  yield  us  noble  fire- 
wood. I  doubt  if  your  own  broad  acres  of 
Randolph,  my  lord,  could  furnish  better." 

"  Dorothy  !  "  exclaimed  I,  for  there  was  none 
to  hear,  and  I  was  heart-pierced  with  her  beauty 
and  her  coldness,  and  the  sudden  knowledge 
that,  so  far  from  friendliness  or  forgiveness, 
her  pride  was  but  bent  to  show  me  every  atom 
of  the  formal  stateliness  and  attention  due  to 
the  guest  of  honor  and  His  Majesty's  Com- 
missioner. 

"  Sir ! "  saith  she,  in  reply  to  my  outburst,  — 
and  nothing  more. 

"  Dorothy,"  I  said,  "  have  you  no  mercy  in 
your  heart?  Is  my  offence  so  bitter  that  all  my 
love  —  "  I  know  not  what  I  would  have  said. 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         203 

She  looked  at  me  with  chill  disdain,  and  her 
sweet  lips  curled. 

"My  Lord  Commissioner,"  said  she,  "you 
speak  at  random.  I  fear  me  you  are  not  your- 
self. The  cold,  perchance,  hath  been  too  much  ?  " 

"  Madam ! "  I  broke  out,  low  and  bitterly, 
"  the  cold  hath  indeed  been  too  much  for  me,  as 
you  say  :  I  am  chilled  to  the  heart !  " 

"  Indeed,"  she  made  answer ;  "  your  Lordship 
will  do  well  to  keep  within  the  blaze  then  ;  yet 
't  is  but  a  moment  you  were  warm  enow  !  Pray 
draw  a  seat  nearer,  Sir  Harry  !  'T  would  please 
my  father  ill  you  should  have  lack  of  warmth  in 
his  house."  She  made  a  dainty  motion  towards 
the  fire  with  her  fan. 

"  Madam,"  I  replied,  biting  my  lips  and 
bowing  low,  "  have  no  fear ;  I  have  naught  to 
complain  of,  having  ever  received  beyond  what 
I  merited." 

"  You  are  over-modest !  "  Mistress  Dorothy 
replied,  calmly  unfurling  her  great  fan,  and 
fanning  herself  languidly,  —  so  lovely  a  sight 
that  my  arms  did  ache  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart. 
"  Yet  't  is  said  modesty  becometh  even  very 
great  men  —  I  crave  your  Lordship's  pardon, 
did  you  speak?" 


204        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

Ay,  did  I,  a  smothered  oath.  I  answered, 
"  Nay,  madam  ;  't  were  useless  !  " 

"  Nay,  then,"  said  she  with  a  somewhat  height- 
ened coloring,  "  your  Lordship  will  excuse  me, 
—  who  am  not  in  the  least  chilled,  — the  blaze 
is  over-warm."  She  dropped  me  a  courtesy 
and  moved  away,  leaving  me  to  grind  my  teeth 
and  curse  myself  for  everything  by  turns. 

And  yet  what  had  I  to  complain  of?  Never 
was  manner  more  faultless,  courtesy  more 
precise.  The  finest  dames  in  the  land  could 
not  have  received  His  Majesty's  self  with  more 
punctilious  etiquette  ;  not  a  Lady  of  Randolph 
could  have  borne  herself  with  an  exacter  grace. 
And  I  had  let  her  see  I  deemed  it  condescension 
to  wed  with  such  as  she  !  O  fool ! 

I  was  standing  oblivious  to  all  but  my  fury 
and  bitterness  and  self-contempt,  and  now,  the 
room  being  filled  with  guests,  and  dinner  being 
announced,  Wentworth  approached  me  with 
Mistress  Dorothy  upon  his  arm.  As  guest  of 
honor  I  was  to  escort  the  hostess,  that  no  point 
of  formality  might  be  set  at  naught.  Our  host 
followed  with  Madam  Bradford,  and  the  rest  of 
the  company  in  order.  My  sweetheart's  hand 
rested  upon  my  sleeve  as  a  snowflake  might 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         205 

have  lain  there ;  and  yet,  for  all  its  chill  light- 
ness, my  heart  beat  high  to  feel  it,  and  to  see 
the  proud  little  head  so  near  my  shoulder,  and 
to  hear  the  dainty  feet  in  their  high-heeled  slip- 
pers clicking  beside  me,  and  the  stiff  rustling  of 
her  brocade  gown  sweeping  along  the  oaken 
floor,  —  the  queenliest  little  figure  in  all  the 
world. 

The  table,  set  forth  with  old  plate  and  damask, 
and  loaded  with  good  cheer  of  all  kinds,  stood 
in  the  great  dining-hall,  which  I  have  before 
described  to  you ;  and  slaves  stood  in  waiting 
behind  the  chairs.  Wentworth  took  one  end  of 
the  table,  with  Madam  Bradford  on  his  right; 
and  I  was  placed  at  the  other  end  of  the  board, 
at  the  right  of  Mistress  Dorothy,  whom  I  handed 
to  her  seat  with  my  best  court  bow.  With  much 
rustling  and  bowing,  the  company  took  their 
seats,  and  on  a  sign  from  Wentworth  the  worthy 
Master  Upton  asked  the  Divine  Grace  in  a 
lengthy  petition.  Methought  I  observed  signs 
of  relief  on  every  face  when  the  good  man 
brought  his  address  to  an  end,  and  our  host 
gave  the  customary  signal  for  the  dinner  to  be 
served.  This  he  did  by  a  stately  wave  of  his 
hand  over  the  well-spread  table,  and  the  words, 
"  Friends,  you  see  your  dinner !  " 


206        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

At  that  instant,  while  our  lips  were  opened  to 
make  the  response  demanded  by  etiquette,  there 
was  a  piercing  shriek,  and  in  rushed  Wentworth's 
housekeeper,  white  as  a  sheet,  and  screaming 
between  every  gasp,  like  one  beside  herself, 
"  Fire  !  fire  !  Lord  save  us  !  —  the  house  hath 
ta'en  fire  !  —  the  fore  part  is  all  in  flames  !  O 
Lord  !  O  Lord  !  " 

The  guests  had  started  up  at  her  entrance, 
and  every  cheek  was  ashen  ;  for  truly,  between 
the  shrieking  woman  and  the  hubbub  and  dis- 
order which  began  to  grow  outside,  with  ser- 
vants running  hither  and  thither  and  screaming, 
it  was  like  to  have  been  a  scene  of  madness  in 
another  minute.  Meanwhile  the  crazy  woman 
went  on  shrieking  :  "  O  Lord !  O  gentlemen  ! 
What  shall  we  do !  " 

I  sprang  from  my  seat.  "  Gentlemen,"  cried 
I,  "to  the  rescue!  " 

"  Bravo !  Sir  Harry,"  cried  Bradford ;  and 
they  all  cried,  "  To  the  rescue !  "  and  jumped 
from  their  chairs,  when  the  voice  of  our  host 
rang  out  above  the  din. 

"  Gentlemen  !     Sir  Harry  !  " 

We  stopped  as  if  shot.  Wentworth  had  risen, 
his  stern  eyes  blazing  and  his  arm  extended. 


A  Strange  Dinner- Party.         207 

"  Sit  you  down !  "  said  he.  "  No  one  stirreth 
but  at  my  command." 

We  every  one  of  us  sat  down  silently.  I  be- 
lieve we  should  have  done  so  had  the  fire  been 
upon  us. 

"  'T  is  well,"  said  Wentworth,  —  and  more 
gently,  "  I  thank  you,  gentlemen,  and  you,  my 
Lord  Commissioner,  for  your  ready  will,  but 
here  hath  no  need." 

At  this  moment  the  crying  jade  began  to 
shriek  again,  "  O  Lord  !  O  Lord !  There  goeth 
the  timbers  !  We  are  all  lost !  " 

"  Remove  that  woman ! "  said  Wentworth, 
sternly.  In  an  instant  she  was  borne  out,  still 
shrieking,  by  half  a  dozen  slaves. 

"  Open  those  doors  !  "  was  our  host's  next 
command.  The  double  casements  behind  us 
were  flung  instantly  open  by  the  servants,  who, 
all  shaking  with  fright  as  they  were,  kept  their 
rolling  white  eyeballs  fixed  upon  their  master, 
and  obeyed  his  every  gesture  with  the  prompti- 
tude of  terror. 

"  Now,"  said  Wentworth,  "  out  with  the 
tables ! " 

Twenty  hands  were  laid  upon  them  instantly, 
but  he  stopped  them  with  a  gesture. 


2o8        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

"  It  needs  not,"  said  he ;  "  my  servants  know 
their  business." 

We  dropped  our  hands  and  stood  mutely  while 
the  great  tables,  groaning  beneath  the  weight  of 
their  furnishings,  were  borne  out  and  set  far 
down  the  lawn  beneath  the  elms.  And  all  the 
time  the  noise  of  the  fire  and  the  shrieks  of  the 
house-servants  grew  louder.  Yet  Wentworth 
stood  immovable  and  stately  at  his  place,  and 
for  very  shame  none  had  dared  to  start. 

"'Tis  well,"  he  said,  when  the  tables  were 
established,  and  the  mute,  panic-stricken  ser- 
vants had  carried  the  chairs  out  after.  "  Gen- 
tlemen, lend  your  arms  to  conduct  these  ladies.  — 
But  first  —  the  air  will  be  keen  outside.  And 
Joe  !  Sam  !  —  "  he  turned  to  the  slaves.  "Go, 
bring  hither  the  wraps  ! " 

They  disappeared,  but  were  hurrying  back  in 
an  instant,  their  faces  showing  well-nigh  white 
through  the  black. 

"  How  now  ? "  said  Wentworth,  impatiently. 

"  Please,  sah,"  said  the  oldest,  a  venerable 
fellow,  his  eyes  rolling  in  his  head,  "  the  fire  am 
done  burned  'em  up  —  it  done  clean  —  " 

"  Peace !  "  interrupted  Wentworth ;  "  bring 
whatever  you  can  find,  then.  Quick  !  the  laun- 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.        209 

dry,  the  kitchen !  Take  what  there  is  to  be 
had."  Setting  the  example,  he  lifted  a  broid- 
ered  table-cover  from  a  stand  and  put  it  about 
the  shoulders  of  Madam  Bradford,  whose  teeth 
were  chattering,  indeed,  but  not  with  cold.  And 
as  fast  as  the  slaves  returned,  their  arms  heaped 
with  curtains,  table-cloths,  —  a  motley  assort- 
ment, —  the  strange  wraps  were  donned  hastily, 
without  a  word  or  smile. 

"  Now,"  said  We.ntworth,  giving  his  arm  to 
Madam  Bradford,  who  had  just  wit  enough  left 
to  take  it,  "  to  the  tables !  " 

I  glanced  at  Dorothy.  She  was  paler,  but 
her  eyes  burned  proudly,  and  I  saw  that  all  her 
father's  spirit  was  afire  within  her. 

A  beam  fell  outside  with  a  crash. 

"To  the  tables!"  commanded  Wentworth, 
unmoved.  "  The  fire  gaineth  upon  us." 

"  But,  Master  Wentworth,  —  sir,  't  is  mad- 
ness ! "  cried  Bradford  at  last,  summoning  cour- 
age to  speak.  "  Let  us  place  these  ladies  in 
safety  —  that  were  but  fitting  —  but  let  not  the 
noble  house  go  without  an  effort  to  save  it.  We 
have  lost  precious  minutes,  but  who  knoweth  if 
it  be  yet  too  late !  Sir  Harry,  join  your  en- 
treaties."—  he  turned  to  me. 
14 


2io        A  Strange  Dinncr-Party. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Wentworth,  for  all  answer, 
"  the  dinner,  my  guests,  and  my  Lord  Commis- 
sioner are  waiting !  To  the  tables!  " 

A  knife  in  my  heart  had  not  made  me  wince 
more.  I  glanced  perforce  at  the  maiden  on  my 
arm,  and  saw  a  great  proud  light  in  her  eyes. 
Nay,  I  know  not  which  were  prouder  of  the  two, 
father  or  daughter. 

There  was  a  great  sound  of  falling  wood,  and 
a  cry  arose  outside. 

"  The  staircase,  it  hath  fallen  !  " 

"  Enough,"  said  Wentworth ;  "  on  to  the 
tables !  "  and  at  the  word  the  panic-stricken 
guests  trooped  forth  from  the  now  blazing  house 
upon  the  lawn,  and,  marshalled  by  Wentworth, 
seated  themselves  about  the  tables. 

Stranger  dinner-party  sure  did  never  eye  of 
man  witness.  Imagine  the  scene  yourselves  : 
the  wintry  lawn ;  the  glittering  tables  set  beneath 
leafless  elms ;  the  blue  sky  overhead  ;  the  richly 
dressed  guests  shivering  in  the  keen  air  under- 
neath their  motley  wrappings  ;  the  panic-stricken 
servants ;  and  for  background  the  noble  mansion 
outlined  against  the  sky,  with  flames  already 
bursting  from  its  windows  ;  the  roaring  and 
crackling ;  the  frightened  cackling  of  hens  and 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         211 

geese  ,  all  the  confusion  ;  and  at  the  head  of  the 
table  the  calm,  unmoved  presence  of  Wentworth 
as  he  stood  in  his  place  and  indicated  the  table 
with  a  dignified  gesture. 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  your  see  your  dinner  !  " 
And  the  frightened  guests,  with  many  a  furtive 
backward  glance  at  the  tongues  of  flame,  made 
haste  to  pipe  up  tremulously  the  customary,  ex- 
pected response :  — 

"  And  a  very  good  dinner  we  see  !  " 
The  trembling  servants  passed  the  viands  and 
poured  the  wine,  which  the  guests  essayed  ner- 
vously to  eat  and  drink  with  would-be  ease  and 
comfort.  Now  and  again  the  sound  of  a  falling 
beam  would  be  echoed  by  a  falling  cup  from 
some  shivering  hand,  or  the  cracking  of  timbers 
by  the  rattle  of  glass  in  shaking  fingers.  Fitful 
and  effervescent  attempts  at  gayety  died  away 
in  the  ever-increasing,  greedy  roar  of  flames, 
and  answering  sullen  groans  of  wood,  as  room 
after  room  fell  into  shapeless  ruin. 

Wentworth  sat  erect  and  imperturbable.  He 
did  not  once  turn  his  head  to  look  at  the  scene 
of  wrath  and  ruin  behind  him  ;  not  a  muscle  of 
his  face  quivered.  Courteous,  magnificent,  and 
attentive  to  his  every  duty,  he  kept  up  an  easy 


212        A   Strange  Dinner-Party. 

and  dignified  flow  of  conversation,  pressing 
upon  his  guests  the  dainties  and  delicacies  with 
all  the  concern  of  a  man  who  hath  naught 
weightier  upon  his  mind;  ever  and  anon  letting 
fall  a  glance  of  rebuke  upon  the  hapless  slave 
who  dropped  a  dish  or  overpoured  a  wineglass. 

"  A  little  more  of  the  turkey,  Mistress  Brad- 
ford, or  the  duck  ?  Nay,  I  protest  you  eat 
nothing !  Is  your  tea  agreeable,  Mistress  Wan- 
ton? Master  Bradford,  Sir  Harry,  a  glass  of 
Burgundy?  Cudjoe,  fill  my  Lord  Commissioner's 
glass.  Dorothy,  look  you  to  Sir  Harry's  com- 
fort. And  so,  Master  Bradford,  you  deem  there 
will  be  no  further  trouble  with  those  pestilent 
malcontents  ?  " 

What  Bradford  would  have  said  man  knoweth 
not,  for  at  that  moment  there  was  a  louder  crash, 
so  that  the  guests  started  anew  in  their  seats ; 
and  looking  up,  I  beheld  the  chimney  which  had 
fallen,  and  all  the  gable  of  the  house  which  still 
stood  had  taken  flames.  I  saw  a  sudden  white- 
ness in  Dorothy's  face,  and  then  bethought  me 
't  was  her  own  room,  wherein  were  all  her  treas- 
ures and  her  mother's  portrait.  I  started  from 
my  seat,  but  two  hands  were  clasped  upon  my 
arm. 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         213 

"  Sir,"  said  Dorothy,  "  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Your  mother's  portrait.     I  will  save  it." 

I  saw  her  suddenly  flush,  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes,  and  the  hand  that  held  me  fast  by  the 
cuff  trembled. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  after  a  brief  second's  pause, 
"  what  of  it  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go,  Dorothy !  Let  me  go !  "  said  I, 
eagerly.  "  I  will  save  it  for  thee  ;  't  is  not  yet 
too  late.  Unloose  me  !  " 

But  her  small  hands  held  me  with  a  clasp  of 
steel,  and  her  sweet  eyes  looked  at  me,  oh,  how 
strangely,  while  her  face  grew  proud  and  cold. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  keep  your  seat,  Sir  Harry." 

"  Dorothy,"  cried  I,  bitterly,  "  thou  art  inex- 
orable ! " 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  with  a  look  that  went  through 
my  very  heart,  "  what  boots  a  picture  more  or 
less  ?  See  you  not,  we  entertain  the  King's 
Commissioner?" 

Struck  to  the  soul,  I  would  have  replied  with 
all  the  fire  of  my  feelings ;  but  ere  I  had  time 
to  speak,  the  strange  girl  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  and  at  her  sweet,  ringing 
tones  every  eye  turned  to  her  where  she  stood 
so  proudly,  the  wineglass  clutched  hi  one  little 


214        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

hand.  " Father,"  saith  she,  "our  guests  grow 
cool,  methinks,  in  this  biting  air.  Were  it  not 
well  we  warmed  them  with  a  toast?  And  since 
my  brother  is  afar,  were  it  not  fitting  I  took  his 
place,  and  named  it  ?  " 

Wentworth  had  risen  at  her  word,  and  every 
other  man  with  him ;  and  now  he  looked  down 
the  long  table  at  his  daughter,  and  I  saw  a  glow 
of  answering  pride  kindle  his  stern  face. 

"  It  were  right  well,  Dorothy,"  he  made  an- 
swer. "  Thy  brother  had  not  spoken  more 
aptly.  Name  thy  toast,  my  child,  though  we 
guess  what  't  will  be."  He  bowed  to  me,  and 
all  the  guests  turned  in  my  direction,  with  their 
glasses  raised. 

"I  crave  your  pardon,  father,"  answered 
Dorothy,  with  spirit.  "  Not  so.  My  Lord 
Commissioner  taketh  not  first  place.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  loyal  Americans  all,  I  give  you 
the  health  of  His  Majesty  the  King !  May  God 
preserve  him ! " 

"  God  preserve  him ! "  echoed  all,  as  the  glasses 
were  drained  to  the  lees. 

"  Fill  your  glasses  again,  gentlemen,"  quoth 
the  strange  maiden,  and  sent  her  great  eyes 
flashing  up  and  down  the  table,  so  that  every 


A  Strange  Dinner- Party.         215 

man  obeyed  her  instantly.  When  't  was  so, 
"  Gentlemen,"  saith  she,  lifting  her  glass  very 
high  and  slowly,  and  speaking  so  distinctly  and 
proudly  that  every  word  fell  like  a  fine  dagger 
from  her  lips,  cutting  as  it  went,  "  I  give  you 
our  guest  of  honor,  His  Majesty's  Commissioner, 
the  very  noble  Sir  Harry  Randolph,  Lord  of 
Randolph.  Drink,  gentlemen  !  'T  is  an  honor 
you  do  yourselves  !  "  She  raised  the  glass  to 
her  lips  with  a  superb  gesture. 

'T  was  too  much  to  be  borne.  "  Hold  !  "  I 
cried,  angrily,  starting  forward,  laying  my  hand 
upon  hers.  The  glass  dropped  from  her  lips, 
and  she  remained  breathless,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  me  with  mingled  defiance  and  dread,  the 
color  coming  and  going  in  her  face.  The  com- 
pany stood  as  petrified.  But  I  was  myself  at 
last.  Not  the  powers  of  all  the  earth  could 
have  held  me  back.  Drawing  myself  to  all  my 
height,  I  turned  to  Wentworth,  still  keeping  my 
hand  on  Dorothy's,  which  as  I  went  on  trembled 
more  and  more  within  it. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "you  have  received  me  honor- 
ably ;  you  have  entertained  me  courteously,  nay, 
as  I  think  never  guest  was  entertained  before. 
Honor,  indeed,  you  would  do  me  to  drink  my 


216        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

health,  as  you  have  proposed,  yet  I  pray  you 
drink  it  not.  I  swear  't  will  be  no  joy  nor  pride 
to  me,  but  a  bitterness  and  sorrow  instead.  I 
pray  you  drink  not  to  me,  my  noble  host,  gal- 
lant gentlemen,  fair  ladies,  if  you  may  not  have 
leave  to  name  me  by  the  only  title  I  desire  to 
claim,  —  that  of  accepted  suitor  of  this  maiden 
here,  Mistress  Dorothy  Wentworth.  Sir,"  I 
hurried  on  ere  Wentworth  could  speak,  "  I  am 
full  conscious  what  I  ask.  Right  well  aware 
that  't  is  the  maddest  presumption.  There  doth 
not  the  man  live  who  is  worthy  of  her.  My 
hope  must  needs  be  altogether  in  your  conde- 
scension and  in  Mistress  Dorothy's  favor.  And 
if  I  be  too  bold,"  I  turned  me  to  her,  "  she  will, 
I  trust,  forgive  me,  in  that  all  my  pride  is  to  lay 
my  name  and  fortune  at  her  feet,  where  my  heart 
hath  been  these  long  weeks  past.  Dorothy,"  I 
entreated,  holding  her  hands  close  and  warmly, 
"  wilt  thou  not  speak  for  me  ?  or  wilt  thou  reject 
my  suit,  and  deem  me  mad  to  dare  presume  it? 
Am  I  altogether  hateful  to  thee  ?  " 

Thereupon  my  sweetheart  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
She  was  blushing  deeply,  but  there  was  a  brave 
light  in  their  depths. 

"  Father,"  saith  she,  and  faltered.    "  Father 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         217 

—  thou  hearest  —  "  And  all  the  guests  stood 
speechless,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"  Yea,"  answered  Wentworth,  gravely,  "  I 
hear,  Dorothy.  Sir  Harry,"  said  he,  "you  have 
proceeded  somewhat  strangely  and  without  order 
in  your  suit,  nevertheless  like  a  true  and  gallant 
gentleman  hath  spoken,  honorably  alike  to  your- 
self, to  my  daughter,  and  to  me."  There  was 
a  warm  murmur  of  assent  from  the  company. 
Wentworth  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
unsought  confirmation. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  went  on  in  his  grave 
fashion,  "  while  I  am  sensible  of  the  compli- 
ment you  pay  us,  there  be  one  or  two  things  I 
would  ask  you.  Have  you  bethought  you  well, 
sir,  you  are  the  heir  of  a  great  house,  and  bear 
a  proud  title  in  your  own  land  ?  Dorothy  and 
I  "  (oh,  the  superb  pride  of  the  man  !)  "are  but 
plain  Christian  people,  commoners" 

"  Sir,"  I  made  haste  to  say,  "  there  is  no 
house  in  England  so  great  that  would  not  be 
honored  to  hold  one  of  your  family  within  it ; 
and  for  my  name  and  title,  beseech  your  daugh- 
ter to  take  both  and  ennoble  them  by  linking 
them  with  hers." 

Such  a  glance  as  Dorothy's  eyes  gave  me ! 


2i8        A  Strange  Dinner- Party. 

I  thought  I  detected  a  quiver  of  gratification  on 
the  stern  old  Puritan's  face,  while  a  little  hum 
of  satisfaction  assured  me  that  the  New  England 
pride  had  answered  to  that  touch. 

"  'T  is  well  and  honorably  spoken,"  said  Went- 
worth, "  but  there  remaineth  another  point.  'T  is 
the  custom  in  your  class  —  a  sober  and  discreet 
one  I  have  ever  held  it  —  that  a  wife  shall  bring 
a  portion  of  worldly  goods  to  her  husband." 
He  paused,  and  then  said  quietly,  "  Enough 
remaineth  for  our  moderate  wants,  but  from  to- 
day "  (this  was  the  only  allusion  he  made  to  his 
loss) "  Dorothy  will  be  but  a  dowerless  bride  for 
an  English  nobleman." 

"  Sir,"  I  broke  in  impetuously,  "  she  is  but 
the  richer  for  it !  I  beseech  you  do  me  not  so 
much  wrong !  Nay,  I  shame  me  that  I  cannot 
even  grieve  sincerely  at  your  loss,  since  it  hath 
taught  me  how  a  great  man  meeteth  such  and 
showeth  but  the  greater  for  it !  " 

"Enough,  Sir  Harry!"  said  Wentworth,  a 
deep  flush  suffusing  his  bronze  cheeks.  "  How 
say  you  for  this  matter,  my  friends?  Hath  not 
my  Lord  Commissioner  borne  himself  honor- 
ably and  well  herein  ?  " 

There  was  a  hearty  assent. 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.         219 

"  In  truth,  Master  Wentworth,"  said  His  Ex- 
cellency, kindly,  "  I  see  not  how  in  reason  you 
can  refuse  to  make  these  children  happy,  —  pro- 
vided," he  added,  smiling,  "  that  fair  Mistress 
Dorothy  be  of  his  Lordship's  favor."  At  this 
all  eyes  were  turned  to  my  sweetheart,  whose 
dear  face  was  growing  pale  and  red  by  turns, 
though  she  stood  it  out  bravely,  nor  even  took 
her  little  hand  from  mine.  Her  father's  eyes, 
too,  rested  upon  her,  and  his  stern  face  grew 
soft. 

"  Dorothy,"  saith  he,  striving  to  make  his 
voice  becomingly  steady,  "Dorothy,  how  say 
you?  Sir  Harry  hath  wooed  you  openly,  but 
perchance  with  the  more  honor.  Needs  must 
your  reply  be  open.  Yet  there  is  no  constraint 
in  the  matter.  Answer  like  an  honest  Puritan 
maiden  who  hath  no  cause  for  fear  or  shame." 

"Father,"  saith  my  darling,  lifting  her  true 
eyes  to  his,  "  I  will  do  naught  without  your 
approval,  but  if  it  doth  not  displease  you  —  " 
her  sweet  lips  faltered  and  her  eyes  sought  mine 
and  then  the  ground.  With  a  brave  effort  she 
lifted  them  straight  and  spoke  out  loud  and 
clear.  "  Father,"  saith  she,  "  I  love  him  ! " 

Wentworth's  whole  face  changed.     "  Take 


220        A  Strange  Dinner-Party. 

her,  Sir  Harry,"  he  said,  "  and  may  God  bless 
and  keep  you  both."  Whereupon  I  caught  my 
darling  to  me,  reckless  what  might  think  the 
guests  about.  In  sooth,  Puritans  though  they 
were,  I  think  the  human  heart  to  be  the  same 
the  world  over,  and  that  it  will  still  throb  the 
faster  in  sympathy  with  true  lovers. 

I  was  recalled  to  myself  by  the  sound  of  mine 
own  name. 

"  Sir  Harry  Randolph  ! "  cried  His  Excellency, 
Governor  Hopkins,  holding  up  his  brimming 
glass.  "  Drink,  good  friends,  to  the  health  and 
happiness  of  Sir  Harry  Randolph,  the  accepted 
suitor  of  Mistress  Dorothy,  the  future  Lady 
Randolph ! " 

It  was  drunk  with  enthusiasm,  despite  Dor- 
othy's blushes  ;  and  then  followed :  "  Our  host, 
Master  John  Wentworth,  the  type  of  a  noble 
Puritan  gentleman."  Ere  the  applause  which 
followed  had  died  away,  Wentworth 's  own  voice 
was  heard  above  it. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  his  tall  and  stately 
figure  outlined  against  the  burning  house,  which 
the  greedy  flames  were  still  licking  hungrily, 
"  Gentlemen,  I  will  give  you  a  worthier  toast." 
In  his  turn  he  raised  his  glass.  "  New  England, 


A  Strange  Dinner-Party.        221 

our  country  !  "  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  like  a 
clarion,  —  "  The  land  which  we  have  redeemed, 
—  the  wilderness  which  we  have  made  to  blos- 
som, —  the  home  which  our  forefathers  won  with 
so  much  toil,  so  many  hardships,  — the  free  soil, 
to  advance  whose  sacred  interests,  to  secure 
whose  peaceful  future,  to  uphold  whose  dignity, 
to  protect  and  cherish  whose  liberties,  we  and 
our  lives  and  homes  and  children  are  dedicated 
forever:  New  England  !  God  bless  her  1 "  He 
drained  his  glass  and  cast  it  to  the  ground,  and 
with  a  mighty  cheer  every  other  glass  was 
drained  and  broken. 

"  New  England  !  God  bless  and  save  her ! " 
echoed  every  lip,  while  eyes  were  dim  and  strong 
faces  quivered.  Verily,  these  people  love  their 
land! 

As  the  last  glass  shivered  to  the  ground  it  was 
answered  by  a  dull  crash ;  the  last  wall  of  the 
house  sank  and  fell.  Wentworth  did  not  turn 
his  head.  Dorothy's  little  hand  lay  in  mine; 
and  all  at  once  methought  I  heard  the  Christ- 
mas bells  ring  out  in  England. 


THE   BASKET   OF   ANITA. 


The  Basket  of  Anita. 


"  SIXTEEN  in  all.  Five  large  ones,  two  small 
queer  ones,  four  medium,  three  with  the  Greek 
pattern,  the  little  brown  one,  and  this  beauty. 
Just  look  at  it,  Manuelo ! "  and  the  speaker 
balanced  in  her  hand,  with  an  air  of  triumph, 
the  delicate  basket  whose  intricately  woven 
tints  formed  a  whole  fascinating  even  to  the 
eye  of  the  uninitiated. 

"  It  is  a  good  one,  sefiorita,"  admitted  Man- 
uelo, guardedly.  "  The  sefiorita  has  as  fine  a 
lot  of  baskets  now  as  any  one  in  the  valley,  sav- 
ing only  old  Anita.  Ah !  if  the  sefiorita  could 
see  hers  — !  " 

He  stopped  abashed,  for  the  young  girl  had 
clapped  her  hands  over  her  ears,  and  was 
shaking  her  head  laughingly  at  him. 

"  Manuelo  !  Manuelo  !  "  said  she,  reproach- 
fully, "  how  many  times  have  I  forbidden  you 


226          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

to  mention  old  Anita  to  me  ?  Is  n't  it  enough 
to  spend  all  my  time,  —  and  money,  —  pursuing 
every  basket  which  reaches  my  ears,  without 
being  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  old  Anita? 
Besides,"  she  added,  irrelevantly,  "  you  know  I 
don't  believe  in  old  Anita  and  her  baskets." 

Manuelo  smiled ;  a  smile  like  swift  sunshine. 
"  That  is  because  you  have  not  seen  them, 
senorita,"  said  he.  "  If  you  had,  you  would 
believe  in  no  others.  There  is  one  of  them  so 
high,  senorita,"  —  with  a  graceful  turn  of  the 
wrist  indicating  the  size. 

"  Three  feet  !  Why,  it  is  a  mammoth, 
Manuelo  ! " 

"  Andjitte  /" —  he  cast  a  disdainful  glance  at 
the  baskets  about  her,  —  "  you  have  nothing  like 
it,  senorita.  But  that  is  not  all.  Where  the 
pattern  goes  there  are  feathers,  —  woodpecker's 
feathers  woven  in,  all  of  the  brightest  scarlet, 
—  oh,  far  gayer  than  these  !  " 

Elsa  shook  her  head,  dejectedly. 

"  You  are  determined  to  make  me  miserable, 
Manuelo.  Now,  what  is  the  use  of  telling  me 
this  when  Anita  and  her  baskets  are  —  how  many 
miles  away  ? —  and  you  know  she  would  n't  sell 
one  of  them  for  less  than  the  price  of  a  small 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  227 

ranch.  If  I  were  a  man  I  might  mount  my 
horse,  make  off  into  the  wilderness,  and  raid 
the  mystical  Anita  for  the  sake  of  her  baskets  ; 
but  since  I  am  not  — "  with  an  expressive 
smile  the  young  girl  turned  again  to  the  con- 
templation of  her  treasures. 

It  was  a  pretty  enough  sight,  —  Manuelo 
thought  so,  at  least,  —  the  dainty  creature  sur- 
rounded by  the  ancient  baskets,  beneath  a  frame 
of  splendid  scarlet  passion-flowers.  The  sun- 
light glinted  on  her  golden  hair  and  floating 
dress ;  and  all  about  and  beneath  lay  the 
fragrant  groves  of  orange  and  lemon,  and  the 
gardens  where  roses  —  red,  white,  and  golden 

—  held  carnival   all  the  year  round.     A  pretty 
sight,  Manuelo  thought,  quite  unaware  what  a 
striking  element  he  himself  added,  cast  upon 
the  lower  step  with  all  the  lazy  grace  of  his 
nation  in  his  figure,  all  its  dark  beauty  in  his 
face,  and  all  its  picturesqueness  in  his  costume, 

—  loose  shirt,  wide  trousers,  sombrero,  and  gay 
kerchief  knotted  about  his  throat.      By  his  side 
lay  his  guitar. 

There  were  two  things  on  earth  that  Manuelo 
loved,  —  his  guitar  and  Lolita. 

Lolita  was  loosely  tethered  in  the  grove  at 


228          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

this  moment.  There  was  nothing  in  her  appear- 
ance to  distinguish  her  from  any  other  of  the 
score  of  bronchos  in  the  village.  But  as  for 
the  guitar,  there  was  none  like  it  in  all  the 
South  or  West.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  very 
old.  Manuelo's  mother  had  fingered  it,  and  her 
mother's  mother  before  her.  They  said  it  came 
first  from  Spain,  a  love-gift  from  some  ardent 
Spanish  lover,  in  the  days  when  Manuelo's 
ancestors  were  great  people  in  the  new  land, 
and  to  be  a  Mexican  was  to  be  of  the  nobility 
of  California.  Be  that  as  it  might,  nothing  else 
remained  of  all  the  traditional  grandeur  and 
pride  save  the  guitar,  and,  perhaps,  a  statuesque 
turn  of  its  young  heritor's  head.  And  the 
quaint  golden  inlaid  tracery  of  the  guitar  had 
grown  rusty,  while  the  statuesque  head  served 
only  to  set  off  a  ragged  sombrero. 

That  troubled  Manuelo  not  at  all,  strange 
compound  of  pride  and  carelessness,  fiery 
impetuosity  and  supine  indolence  that  he  was. 

His  old  curmudgeon  of  an  uncle,  with  whom 
he  lived,  might  scold  and  swear,  rolling  Spanish 
oaths  at  him  ;  Manuelo  was  thoroughly  con- 
tented with  his  meagre  lot,  equally  happy 
while  tearing  madly  about  the  country  on 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  229 

Lolita,  or  lying  idly  at  the  feet  of  Elsa  Loring, 
singing  Southern  melodies  to  his  beloved 
guitar. 

How  many  hours  he  had  spent  so  since  blue- 
eyed  Elsa  came  to  occupy  the  hammock  on  the 
porch  at  Las  Delicias,  neither  Manuelo  nor  Elsa 
cared  to  reckon.  To  Elsa  it  was  such  a  natural 
thing  to  have  him  at  her  feet;  to  Manuelo,  so 
simply  natural  to  be  there.  And  now  Elsa  had 
contracted  the  basket  craze. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  them  all,  senorita  ?  " 
demanded  Manuelo,  abruptly,  after  watching 
her  silently  for  a  space. 

Elsa  looked  up  from  the  five  she  was  critically 
trying  to  make  a  choice  between. 

"  Do  with  them  ?  "  she  repeated,  vaguely  ; 
"  oh,  I  shall  —  take  them  home  with  me."  She 
blushed  a  little.  Manuelo  said  nothing.  "  You 
see,"  continued  Elsa,  confidentially,  "  in  our 
part  of  the  country  they  don't  have  anything 
like  them,  nothing  half  so  beautiful,  and  so  the 
people  are  all  wild  about  them.  The  more  I 
can  get  the  better  I  shall  like  it,  and  the 
prouder  I  shall  be.  Only"  —  she  added,  rue- 
fully —  "I  can't  get  many  more,  for  I  have 
pretty  nearly  ruined  myself  already  in  spite  of 


230          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

the  wonderful  bargains  you  have  found  for 
me." 

Manuelo  looked  pleased.  "  You  need  not 
give  yourself  trouble  for  that,  senorita,"  said  he, 
"  there  are  more,  plenty  more,  and  —  cheap.  I 
will  find  them  for  you." 

Elsa's  blue  eyes  gave  him  a  glance  before 
which  his  own  fell  for  sheer  joy. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  dare  say  you  will.  I 
believe  you  even  cause  them  to  spring  from  the 
ground.  I  am  not  sure  you  don't  sit  up  nights 
to  manufacture  them  yourself,  —  and  all  for  a 
song!  Look  at  that  beauty,  —  only  four  dollars 
it  cost  me.  You  could  have  sold  it  to  the 
Englishman  for  double.  I  sometimes  think, 
Manuelo,  that  you  are  —  too  good  to  me." 

Manuelo  looked  out  into  the  grove  —  at 
Lolita. 

"  Sefiorita,"  he  stammered,  "  impossible  !  It 
is  you  who  are  too  good." 

"  And  all  the  other  things,  the  walks,  and 
drives,  and  music,"  persisted  the  girl,  "  when  I 
was  so  ill,  and  they  brought  me  here  to  cure  me, 
and  I  was  so  homesick  that  I  almost  preferred 
to  die.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  your  music  ?  —  I  should  have  gone 
mad." 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  231 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  him.  Actually  there 
were  tears  in  them. 

Manuelo  sprang  from  his  step.  "  Sefiorita," 
he  cried,  quite  beside  himself,  "  I  beg  of  you  ! 
It  was  all  nothing !  I  loved  to  do  it,  sefiorita,  — 
the  walks,  the  drives,  the  music ;  and  as  for  the 
baskets,  — a  miserable  set  of  wretched  ones,  not 
worth  your  thanks,"  he  added,  in  order  to  dis- 
pose of  them  utterly.  "  Now,  had  they  been  the 
baskets  of  Anita,  the  seflorita  might  indeed  —  " 

And  Elsa  threw  back  her  golden  head  and 
laughed  merrily  with  still  moist  eyes. 

"  Aunt  Mary,"  she  said,  an  hour  later  — 
Manuelo,  after  singing  her  many  songs,  had 
gone  in  search  of  the  mail,  a  duty  he  had  long 
since  assumed,  counting  himself  richly  paid  for 
the  dusty  ride  by  the  smile  home  letters  brought 
to  Elsa's  lips  —  "  Aunt  Mary,"  said  she,  "  this 
is  the  loveliest  country  on  earth,  —  but  it  would 
be  rather  dull  without  Manuelo,  don't  you  think  ? 
Tell  me,  —  what  can  I  give  him  to  show  how 
grateful  I  am  to  him  ?  " 

Aunt  Mary  thought  a  moment,  her  mild  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  delicate  wild-rose  face  before 
her.  Perhaps  that  very  thing  suggested  her 
reply. 


232          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  why  not  give  him  your 
photograph  ?  " 

Elsa  sat  bolt  upright  in  horror. 

"  Good  gracious,  Aunt  Mary !  My  photograph 
to  Manuelo ! " 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  answered  the  placid  lady, 
"  there  is  nothing  he  would  like  so  well.  You 
asked  my  opinion.  You  owe  a  great  deal  to 
his  devoted  service.  He  has  shown  himself  a 
faithful  friend,  and  it  would  please  him  to  be 
treated  as  such.  Besides,  the  lad  is  a  gentle- 
man. Under  the  circumstances  there  can  be  no 
impropriety." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  murmured  Elsa,  blush- 
ing daintily,  "  but  it  is  very,  very  unorthodox ! 
Still,  as  you  say,  I  owe  him  a  great  deal." 

She  sat  very  thoughtfully  after  that  for  a  long 
time,  leaning  back  in  the  hammock,  letting  her 
eyes  wander  from  the  nest  of  roses  and  passion- 
flowers about  her,  over  palms,  and  pepper-tops, 
to  the  distant  snow-capped  peaks  against  the 
sky  of  more  than  Italian  blue.  All  that  land- 
scape was  full  of  Manuelo  to  her,  —  full  as  her 
days  had  been  since  she  first  came,  a  delicate 
invalid,  who  could  do  no  more  than  lie  all  day 
in  the  hammock  and  listlessly  absorb  the  sun- 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  233 

light.  Well,  it  was  Manuelo  who  swung  the 
hammock  for  her  the  very  day  after  her  arrival, 
Manuelo,  who  chanced  just  then  to  be  irrigating 
the  orange-groves  at  Las  Delicias. 

Elsa's  fragile  grace  and  fairness,  the  golden 
hair  and  blue  eyes  which  looked  twice  angelic 
beside  the  florid  Spanish  beauties  and  tropical 
wealth  of  color  all  about,  exercised  a  subtle  spell 
upon  Manuelo  from  the  outset.  Her  sufferings 
and  needs  appealed  to  all  that  was  chivalrous 
in  his  ardent  nature.  From  watching  to  occa- 
sional ready  aid,  from  that  to  daily  service,  was 
a  rapid  growth.  Never  had  lady  more  devoted 
cavalier  than  Elsa  in  the  dark-eyed  Mexican.  It 
was  he  who  guided  her  walks  ;  who  found  a  safe 
little  mustang  for  her ;  who  devised  excursions  ; 
who  piloted  her  to  all  the  points  of  beauty; 
who  introduced  her  to  the  Padre  at  the  old 
mission,  and  trotted  out  for  her  benefit  all  pictur- 
esque characters  in  the  neighborhood  ;  who  ran- 
sacked huts  and  scoured  ranches  in  pursuit  of 
Indian  baskets,  when  finally  the  fell  mania  of 
collecting  seized  upon  Elsa. 

"  Manuelo,"  she  asked  him  once,  marvelling 
at  his  unwearied  energy,  "why  is  it  that  you, 
who  are  so  full  of  activity,  don't  do  something  ?  " 


234          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

"  Seftorita,"  he  replied,  calmly,  looking  up 
from  under  his  sombrero,  "  there  is  nothing  to 
do." 

"Then  why  not  go  away?"  persisted  Elsa. 
"  You  are  young  and  strong.  You  waste  your 
life  in  this  sleepy  little  village." 

Manuelo's  eyes  grew  suddenly  very  far 
away. 

"  Who  knows  ?"  said  he,  dreamily;  "I  have 
thought  of  it.  It  is  dull  at  times,  and  Pedro 
grows  Grosser.  There  is  my  cousin  Jesus  in  the 
Esperanza  mines.  There  there  is  always  some- 
thing. Perhaps  —  some  day  ! " 

"  Some  day  is  no  day,"  said  Elsa,  shaking  her 
head.  "  You  should  make  up  your  mind  and  go 
at  once." 

Manuelo  glanced  about,  at  the  garden,  the 
vine-covered  porch,  the  cool  little  fountain  in  its 
forest  of  calla  lilies,  then  he  looked  at  Elsa  and 
smiled  very  sweetly. 

"  Senorita,"  said  he,  "  it  is  good  here  too." 
He  picked  up  the  guitar,  touched  the  chords, 
and  swept  the  girl  away  with  the  magic  of  a 
Southern  song. 

Elsa  thought  of  all  these  things  and  many 
more  now.  The  result  of  her  meditation  was 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  235 

that  she  selected  from  her  desk  that  night  a 
photograph  of  herself.  On  the  back  she  wrote, 
"  Manuelo,  from  Elsa  Loring,  with  grateful 
thanks." 

She  gave  it  to  him  the  next  day  with  a  little 
graceful,  merry  phrase;  but  she  was  totally 
unprepared  for  its  effect  upon  Manuelo. 

A  great  wave  of  color,  of  light,  surged  into 
his  face  and  glowing  eyes.  He  absolutely 
trembled.  For  a  moment  he  could  say  nothing. 
When  he  did  speak,  it  was  but  two  stammering, 
tremulous  words. 

"  Senorita  1     Gracias  !     mille  gracias  !  " 

"It  is  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  Manuelo,"  said 
Elsa,  lightly.  But  in  her  heart  she  had  a  sudden 
misgiving  as  to  the  wisdom  of  Aunt  Mary's 
benevolence. 

Manuelo  never  spoke  again  of  the  gift.  Only 
he  was,  if  possible,  more  serviceable  and  gentle 
and  thoughtful  than  ever,  while  his  mellow  voice 
and  plaintive  guitar  might  be  heard  nightly 
floating  above  the  perfumed  groves  of  Las 
Delicias. 

Elsa  grew  fonder  and  fonder  of  him,  and 
treated  him  like  a  favored  brother.  She  found 
the  country,  the  climate,  and  Manuelo  all  perfect, 


236          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

and  declared  that  she  herself  should  be  perfectly 
happy  but  for  one  thing. 

"  And  that  one  thing  —  ? "  said  Aunt  Mary, 
with  a  smile. 

"  The  baskets  of  Anita,"  asserted  Elsa,  as  with 
a  mischievous  laugh  she  disappeared  into  the 
house. 

The  peaceful  weeks  flew  by.  In  a  land  where 
there  is  nothing  to  mark  the  flight  of  time  save 
fresh  succession  of  flowers,  time  flies  faster  than 
elsewhere.  The  oranges  came,  and  ripened 
upon  the  trees  into  luscious  globes  of  juicy 
sweetness;  the  almonds  blossomed,  and  the 
apricots  and  peaches  turned  the  landscape  into 
a  Japanese  garden  of  pearl  and  white.  The  pop- 
pies blossomed  and  ran  across  the  mesas,  acres 
of  them,  —  waves  of  living,  palpitating  orange- 
golden  glow.  The  larks  came  and  sang  over 
them.  One  by  one  out  came  the  multitudinous 
wild  flowers  and  carpeted  every  inch  of  ground, 
running  boldly  into  the  very  poppy-fields.  And, 
finally,  when  every  tree  and  bush  and  bit  of  land 
was  set  in  flower  and  leaf  and  clothing  green, 
the  roses  held  their  perfect  April  festival.  By 
millions  they  waved  and  climbed  and  bloomed 
extravagantly  on  every  hand.  White  and  gold 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  237 

and  crimson,  and  every  tint  between,  the  land 
disappeared  under  roses,  the  whole  face  of  the 
country  glowed  and  blossomed  with  them. 

So,  perfumed  and  flattered  and  wooed,  and 
caressed  by  flowers  and  sun  and  softest  air,  the 
fragile  Elsa  strengthened  her  hold  of  life  daily, 
and  bloomed,  like  the  land  about  her,  into 
beauty  and  sudden  happiness.  Such  a  change 
had  come  over  her.  Manuelo  was  not  a  little 
proud  of  it. 

"  Senorita,"  said  he,  "  you  should  live  always 
in  our  South." 

Basket-hunting  remained  Elsa's  favorite  oc- 
cupation. She  was  constantly  renewing  her 
determination  to  consider  the  collection  com- 
plete, and  as  constantly  being  lured  from  it  by 
the  sight  of  a  novel  form,  a  quaint  pattern,  or 
some  "  bargain  too  good  to  be  lost." 

Her  collection  was  quite  a  theme  of  interest 
to  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  village  who 
knew  her,  each  one  of  them  personally,  by  this 
time.  They  were  fond  of  bringing  their  friends 
to  see  the  assortment  which  Elsa  was  always 
ready  to  display,  and  more  than  one  excellent 
bargain  found  its  way  to  Elsa's  ears  through 
their  interest.  It  was  early  days  then.  If  Elsa 


238  The  Basket  of  Anita. 

went  back  now  to  the  village  she  would  find 
baskets  rarer  than  roses  in  an  Eastern  winter, 
and  held  at  proportionate  prices.  But  in  these 
days  she  had  it  much  her  own  way. 

Many  and  various  were  the  baskets.  Great 
bell-shaped  black  and  white  ones  ;  tall,  delicate, 
vase-like  shapes;  odd  ones  like  hour-glasses 
broken  abruptly ;  some  small  and  dainty  like 
a  lady's  bonbonniere ;  others  flat  and  like  tiny 
saucers  for  sweet-breathed  violets,  —  there  was 
no  shape,  size,  or  texture  missing  from  Elsa's 
store.  Of  every  age,  tint,  degree  of  wholeness 
and  cleanliness,  —  truly  they  formed  a  treasure 
to  make  a  connoisseur's  heart  beat  high  and 
enviously. 

One  unusually  warm  afternoon  Manuelo  rode 
up  to  the  entrance  of  Las  Delicias.  He  had 
been  setting  out  orange-slips  all  day,  and  then 
had  ridden  a  couple  of  miles  beyond  to  secure 
a  basket  of  which  Francisco  Martinez  had  told 
him  over  their  work.  Baskets  were  growing 
scarce,  and  Manuelo  had  to  look  farther  afield 
each  day. 

This  one  proved  to  be  a  miserable  affair, 
small,  dingy,  and  ragged,  besides  smelling  most 
self-assertingly  of  all  its  latest  uses.  Manuelo 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  239 

almost  decided  not  to  take  it  at  all,  but  he  hated 
to  go  back  empty-handed.  The  owner  com- 
pounded for  "four  bits,"  and  finally  Manuelo 
left  the  hut  with  the  basket  in  his  hand  and 
disdain  in  his  eyes. 

"  Still,"  thought  he,  solacingly,  "  it  is  one 
more,  and  will  amuse  the  senorita." 

He  made  Lolita  fast  to  the  usual  pepper-tree. 
"  Here  is  Manuelo  now,"  he  heard  Elsa  say,  as 
he  came  up  the  path.  And  then  a  fierce  pang 
of  jealousy  smote  his  heart. 

On  the  top  of  the  wide  steps  sat  Elsa,  radiant, 
and  Aunt  Mary  close  behind ;  and  in  front  of 
Elsa,  huge,  mellowed  by  age  to  a  beguiling 
brown,  and  with  a  great,  florid  pattern  sprawl- 
ing alluringly  about  its  wide  mouth,  stood  the 
king  of  all  baskets.  Yet  it  was  not  the  basket, 
nor  Elsa's  triumphant  eyes,  which  Manuelo 
noticed  with  that  bitter  pang,  but  the  lounging 
figure  of  Josd  Silva  on  the  step  below. 

Josd  was  the  natural  rival  of  Manuelo.  In 
the  first  place  Jose'  was  a  year  older,  and  an 
inch  taller,  and  as  agile  with  his  feet  as  Manuelo 
with  his  fingers,  —  the  best  dancer,  as  Manuelo 
was  the  best  musician,  in  San  Miguel.  In  the 
second  place,  Jose  had  in  his  blood  that  taint 


240          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

which  no  Mexican  ever  pardons,  the  Indian 
taint,  and  Manuelo  was  a  Mexican  Caballero 
at  heart,  with  all  the  pride  and  prejudice  of  his 
race  hot  within  him.  There  was  no  love  lost 
between  the  two.  Doubtless  it  was  more  to 
anger  Manuelo  than  for  any  other  purpose  that 
Jose',  knowing  well  his  devotion  to  Elsa,  —  had 
he  not  ridiculed  it  for  months  back  as  openly  as 
he  dared?  — had  taken  the  pains  to  bring  her  a 
basket  which  far  outrivalled  any  Manuelo  had 
ever  been  able  to  find. 

"No  doubt  he  stole  it,"  thought  Manuelo, 
bitterly,  as  he  went  up  the  steps.  He  was  too 
proud  to  show  his  feelings,  except  by  an  extra 
touch  of  Castilian  dignity  as  he  saluted  the 
ladies  and  Jose*. 

"  Only  look,  Manuelo  !  "  cried  Elsa,  unable  to 
suppress  her  excitement.  "Jose"  has  brought 
me  the  most  magnificent  basket !  Only  see  how 
fine  it  is,  and  what  a  pattern !  He  says  it  is  at 
least  a  hundred  years  old.  Is  n't  it  superb  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  fine,  senorita,"  answered  Manuelo, 
proudly. 

"  And  only  ten  dollars,"  said  Elsa,  exultantly. 
"  Think  of  it !  Why,  I  would  n't  have  missed 
it  for  half  as  much  again." 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  241 

Jose*  smiled,  a  swift,  flashing  smile.  He  was 
very  handsome  when  he  smiled. 

Manuelo  hated  him. 

"  Then  take  care,  senorita,"  said  Jose",  "  I 
may  raise  my  price." 

Elsa  laughed.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not 
afraid.  You  are  honest ;  all  you  Mexicans  are. 
Look  at  Manuelo ;  he  has  sold  me  baskets  for  a 
song  all  winter." 

Josd  glanced,  just  glanced,  at  the  baskets 
about  him,  and  then  back  at  his  own,  and  he 
smiled  a  little.  The  smile  said  as  plainly  as 
words,  "  I  am  too  polite  to  say  so,  but  such 
baskets  —  !  Now  mine  —  ! " 

Manuelo's  blood  boiled.  He,  too,  looked 
bitterly  at  the  baskets  he  had  gathered  with 
such  loving  pride.  How  coarse  and  dingy  and 
common  they  had  all  at  once  grown  beside  the 
magnificent  basket  of  Jose* !  And  as  for  the  last 
wretched  one,  —  he  would  gladly  have  thrown  it 
out  into  the  grove,  had  such  a  thing  been  pos- 
sible. At  this  very  moment  Elsa  caught  sight 
of  it. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "what  is  that  in  your 
hand  ?  —  another  basket  for  me  ?  " 

Manuelo  gathered  all  his  Castilian  pride. 
16 


242          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

He  produced  the  basket  and  handed  it  to  her 
indifferently. 

"It  is  a  wretched  one,  sefiorita,"  he  said, 
calmly,  "but  will  serve  to  increase  your  col- 
lection." 

Elsa  took  it  and  looked  at  it  silently. 

Josd  looked  at  it  too,  and  smiled. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  it,"  said 
Elsa,  gently,  "  and  I  only  wonder  you  could  find 
any,  —  you  have  brought  me  so  many."  She 
put  it  beside  the  others,  then  she  stood  off  and 
looked  at  the  entire  row.  Manuelo  watched 
the  varying  expression  as  she  looked  from  one 
to  another.  When  she  came  to  the  monster 
which  headed  the  line  with  an  air  of  conscious 
superiority  (for  which  Manuelo  could  have 
kicked  it),  her  eyes  brightened  with  delight, 
and  she  clasped  her  hands  together,  naively. 
Manuelo's  heart  contracted.  "  Oh,  you  beauty ! " 
she  exclaimed,  involuntarily  ;  then,  "  I  believe 
I  shall  have  to  give  up  collecting  now,"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  shall  never  be  satisfied 
with  anything  less  than  this  again,  and  there 
are  no  more,  there  can't  be  any  more  like  it,  — 
can  there,  Manuelo  ?"  She  turned  to  him,  con- 
fidingly. "  Did  you  ever  see  a  basket  more 
beautiful  than  this  ?  " 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  243 

Jose"  cast  a  glance  of  malice.  Manuelo  drew 
himself  up  proudly. 

"  Sefiorita,"  said  he,  "yes,  —  the  baskets  of 
Anita ! "  Then  he  felt  himself  grow  scarlet, 
for  there  was  an  irrepressible  ripple  of  laughter, 
quickly  suppressed,  from  Aunt  Mary,  and  a 
hoarse  chuckle  from  Jose'.  Even  Elsa  had 
smiled  a  swift,  involuntary  smile.  But  Elsa 
was  a  little  gentlewoman,  and  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  sudden  passion  of  Manuelo's 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  surely,"  she  said,  with  easy  natural- 
ness, "  I  had  forgotten  the  beautiful  baskets  of 
Anita."  Then  she  picked  up  one  of  the  lesser 
baskets,  crowned  it  with  scarlet  passion-flowers, 
and  called  upon  them  all  to  admire  the  effect. 

It  was  gracefully  and  graciously  done,  and 
Manuelo  knew  it.  He  took  up  his  hat  quickly. 

"  Adios,  sefiorita  !  "  said  he.  Elsa  looked  up 
quickly. 

"  Are  you  going  already,  Manuelo  ?  Will  you 
not  stay  and  sing  for  us  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "Thanks,  senorita ; " 
catching  the  mocking  eyes  of  Jose*  he  murmured 
something  about  "manana."  Then  he  turned 
away  down  the  rose-bordered  path  under  the 


244          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

olives,  carrying  his  head  very  high  indeed, 
while  the  guitar  dangled  at  his  side. 

Poor  Manuelo !  He  knew  —  worst  of  all  — 
that  he  had  betrayed  himself;  that  all  his  pride 
had  not  availed.  Ridiculed,  despised,  his  lov- 
ing work  of  all  the  winter  made  worthless  in  a 
single  moment,  and  finally  to  be  misbelieved. 
He  had  not  minded  Elsa's  laughing  jests  at  old 
Anita  all  winter, — what  a  different  thing  they 
sounded  now  in  the  light  of  Josh's  mocking  eyes ! 
Manuelo  set  his  teeth  and  his  face  grew  stern. 

"We  shall  see  if  they  will  believe  or  no," 
said  he. 

He  unfastened  Lolita,  threw  himself  upon 
her,  thrust  his  heels  into  her  sides,  and  without 
a  backward  glance  at  the  house  galloped 
away. 

Old  Pedro  was  standing  in  front  of  the  dilap- 
idated adobe  house  when  the  clattering  of 
swift  hoofs  came  up  the  road,  and  Manuelo, 
leaping  lightly  down,  with  a  dexterous  turn  of 
the  rein  made  the  pony  fast  to  a  low  pepper- 
tree.  Then  he  came  up  to  Pedro,  who  took 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth  aud  regarded  him 
disapprovingly. 

"  How  now,  lazy  bones ! "  grumbled  he. 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  245 

Manuelo  was  pale,  and  the  dust  lay  thickly 
upon  his  purple  kerchief. 

"  Money  ! "  said  Manuelo,  briefly. 

Old  Pedro  sniffed  scornfully,  and  put  his  pipe 
back  again.  Manuelo  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  I  want  money !  you  hear  ?  I  must  and  I  will 
have  it ! " 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  give  it  to  you,  then, 
idler  ?  Where  is  that  from  the  orange  picking? 
Gone  !  thrown  away  !  and  you  think  I  will  give 
you  more  to  throw  in  the  dust,"  —  Pedro's  voice 
was  raised  discordantly,  —  "  good-for-nothing ! 
Not  I  ! " 

"  See,"  said  Manuelo,  "  will  you  lend  it?" 

"  No,"  said  Pedro,  "  not  a  cent  will  I ! " 

Manuelo  made  a  despairing  gesture. 

"  Have  it  I  must,  and  will ! "  He  turned  away, 
leaned  against  Lolita,  one  hand  thrown  across 
her  neck,  and  thought  desperately. 

Old  Pedro  watched  him  curiously.  Suddenly 
an  evil  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Manuelito,"  said  he,  caressingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Manuelo,  mechanically;  he  was 
thinking,  thinking. 

"  You  want  that  money  badly  ?  "  with  an  evil 
grin. 


246          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

"  Desperately." 

"  Good !  Give  me  the  guitar,  you  shall  have 
it." 

Manuelo  started  violently.  Involuntarily  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  it.  Sell  the  guitar,  his  best 
beloved,  his  treasure !  He  dragged  it  hastily 
round,  and  glared  at  it,  the  sole  remnant  of  all 
the  faded  glories  of  his  family.  As  soon  part 
with  Lolita ! 

"  Good !  "  said  old  Pedro,  with  a  sneer ;  "  you 
can  do  without  the  money,  idiot,  that 's  plain  to 
see."  He  turned  to  go  in. 

"  Wait !  "  said  Manuelo.  He  unstrung  the 
guitar  from  his  shoulder,  and  held  it  out  in  both 
hands  to  Pedro. 

"  How  much  for  it  ?  "  said  he. 

Old  Pedro  came  back  grumbling.  The  guitar 
was  very  old,  the  inlaid  part  shabby ;  it  would 
need  new  strings ;  he  feared  the  tone  was  not 
what  it  had  been. 

"  Twenty-five  dollars,"  said  Manuelo,  sternly, 
"and  it  is  yours." 

Pedro  held  up  his  hands  to  heaven. 

Twenty-five  dollars  !  Saints  above  !  was  he 
made  of  money  ?  Fifteen  would  be  ruinous. 

"  Twenty-five  dollars  now,  on  the  spot,  or  I 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  247 

will  take  it  to  the  Englishman,  who  you  know 
will  give  me  thirty.  Yes  or  no ! " 

"  No !  " 

Without  a  word  Manuelo  slung  the  guitar 
over  his  head  and  turned  to  Lolita. 

"  Now,  did  ever  one  see  such  a  hot  head ! " 
cried  old  Pedro,  in  grieved  surprise.  "  A  word 
is  a  blow  with  him.  Here,  madcap,  give  me 
the  guitar  and  take  the  money.  Besides,  the 
Englishman  is  away,  and  you  are  in  haste  to 
throw  the  good  money  in  the  dust,  I  warrant. 
Come,  bring  on  the  guitar."  And  so,  grumbling 
and  swearing,  the  old  man  went  in  and  unearthed 
his  miserly  guarded  store.  Manuelo  stood  by 
impassive  and  silent,  having  once  more  unslung 
the  guitar. 

"  Here,"  said  Pedro  at  last,  reluctantly  hand- 
ing the  money  to  him.  It  went  to  Pedro's  heart 
to  part  with  these  dollars,  but  there  was  conso- 
lation in  the  guitar.  He  knew,  if  Manuelo  did 
not,  what  the  curio-hunting  Englishman  would 
give  for  the  rarest  guitar  in  America. 

Manuelo  took  the  money,  laid  the  guitar  in 
the  grasping  hands  outstretched  for  it,  and 
turned  away.  He  leaped  straight  upon  Lolita, 
and  paying  no  heed  to  the  questions  and  com- 


248          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

mands  which  Pedro  screamed  after  him,  rode 
off  under  the  drooping  peppers. 

"  The  mad  fool ! "  grumbled  Pedro.  And 
then  he  looked  at  the  guitar  and  chuckled  to 
himself. 

Three  days  and  three  nights  Manuelo  loped 
southward  to  the  mountains.  He  stopped  each 
night  at  some  ranchero's,  but  each  morning's 
sun  found  him  again  on  Lolita's  back,  his  can- 
tina  stuffed  with  some  frugal  provision  for  the 
day.  The  mountains  grew  steeper,  the  ranches 
lengthened  into  broad  domains  holding  each 
many  square  miles  in  its  boundaries ;  the  vil- 
lages dwindled  into  mere  scattered  hamlets,  and 
finally  there  was  not  much  else  than  a  rude  trail 
from  one  solitary  adobe  hut  to  another.  But  it 
grew  ever  more  picturesque.  The  chaparal- 
covered  hills  were  abloom  with  silver ;  quails 
and  wood-doves,  jack-rabbits  and  squirrels 
started  up  in  all  directions  from  under  Lolita's 
feet;  and  the  yuccas,  myriads  of  them,  stood 
thickly  over  the  sides  of  the  great  hills,  and 
high  on  impassable  ledges  above  the  wild  ra- 
vines, like  the  multitudinous  snowy  banners  of 
a  hidden  army. 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  249 

It  was  very  still.  There  were  no  carriages, 
still  less  railroads.  Only  now  and  then  the 
figure  of  a  horseman  going  at  the  easy  lope 
which  replaces  a  walk  where  distances  are  al- 
ways measured  by  miles,  or  a  solitary  tourist 
with  his  bag  and  gun  slung  across  his  shoulder. 
For,  year  by  year,  as  the  ranches  go,  as  the 
"  Greaser  "  and  the  Indian  go,  as  all  the  semi- 
tropical  Spanish-Bohemianism  is  driven  farther 
back,  the  picturesque-loving  tourist  takes  refuge 
more  and  more  in  "  tramping  "  it  through  the 
by-ways  of  California. 

It  was  late  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
when  Manuelo,  loping  along  over  a  level  mesa, 
beheld  high  upon  a  hillside  the  object  of  his 
quest,  —  a  gray  patch  which  his  experienced 
eye  knew  for  a  cluster  of  adobe  huts.  He  drew 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  So,"  he  muttered,  "  there  they  are.  It  is 
well."  Then  he  bent  and  stroked  Lolita's  neck 
re  assuredly. 

"Courage,  my  darling,"  said  he,  "we  are 
almost  there,  and  then  a  good  supper  and  a 
night's  rest  for  thee." 

At  that  moment,  round  the  sharp  turn  of  the 
road  came  a  pedestrian ;  a  pedestrian  at  whom 


250          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

Manuelo  glanced  carelessly,  then  with  sudden 
wonder,  then  with  a  thrill,  a  shock  which  made 
his  heart  bound  and  stand  still. 

The  stranger  was  young,  thirty  perhaps,  tall 
and  slender.  He  walked  with  the  assured  gait 
of  a  mountain-climber,  but  his  jaunty  costume 
betrayed  the  "civilizee,"  if  not  the  dandy.  A 
picturesque  sombrero  shaded  his  handsome 
face,  out  of  which  two  clear  gray  eyes  looked 
coolly  and  merrily.  Certainly  there  was  noth- 
ing in  all  this  to  make  Manuelo's  heart  behave 
so  madly !  The  stranger  carried  a  gun  across 
his  shoulder,  and  from  a  leather  strap  hung  a 
bag,  sketching-stool,  and  a  mammoth  Indian 
basket.  Upon  this  basket  the  gaze  of  Manuelo 
was  fastened  with  silent  horror.  Big,  brown, 
finer  than  woven  silk ;  and  woven  in  a  marvel- 
lous pattern  which  showed  a  constant  scarlet 
gleam  throughout  it,  Manuelo  would  have 
known  it  among  ten  thousand  others,  —  the 
basket  of  Anita  !  Meanwhile  the  stranger  had 
approached,  and  lifting  his  hat  with  a  smiling 
"  Buenos  dios,  senor ! "  was  passing  by.  At 
the  same  instant  Manuelo  reined  Lolita  straight 
across  the  path.  "  Senor,"  said  he,  "  a  thou- 
sand pardons ! "  He  leaped  from  his  horse. 
The  stranger  regarded  him  coolly  but  friendlily. 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  251 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  senor,"  repeated  Man- 
uelo,  agitatedly,  taking  off  his  hat.  "  You  have 
there  a  fine  basket,  senor !  " 

The  "  senor  "  smiled.  "  You  are  a  connois- 
seur, then,  my  friend  ?  "  said  he.  "  Yes,  it  is  a 
magnificent  specimen."  He  pulled  it  round  and 
contemplated  it  with  satisfaction.  "  I  bought 
it  from  an  old  Indian  woman  up  yonder,"  he 
added,  "  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  I  was  in 
luck,  though  she  fleeced  me  to  a  pretty  extent. 
It  weighs  more  than  a  feather,  too,"  he  added, 
smiling  as  he  readjusted  it  with  a  little  shrug. 

"  Senor,"  —  Manuelo's  heart  beat  so  fast  and 
hard  it  must  almost  have  been  visible  through 
his  jacket,  —  "as  you  say,  it  weighs ;  you  will 
find  it  will  grow  heavier  as  you  go,  sefior.  If 
you  would  care  to  part  with  it  —  " 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  stranger,  calmly,  "  I  am 
in  nowise  anxious." 

"  If  it  were  a  question  of  the  price  —  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  in  the  least  a  question  of  the 
price." 

"  Senor  "  —  Manuelo's  tone  was  entreating, 
supplicating,  —  "I  have  come  many  miles  to  pur- 
chase that  basket.  Three  days  have  I  travelled, 
senor  !  If  you  would  but  sell  it  —  " 


252          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  with  new  interest. 
He  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  haggard  lines 
of  the  young  Mexican's  face. 

"  Why  do  you  come  so  far  and  take  so  much 
trouble  for  this  particular  basket;  there  must 
be  thousands  of  others  ?  "  he  asked,  with  direct 
and  clear  scrutiny. 

"  There  are  thousands  of  others,  senor  ;  yes ! 
—  but  there  is  none  other  like  this  in  all  the 
country." 

The  senor  smiled  a  little  triumphantly. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  he,  "  you  must  under- 
stand that,  having  been  lucky  enough  to  find 
it,  I  may  naturally  wish  to  keep  it.  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  my  friend,"  he  added,  "  sorry  to  be  dis- 
obliging, but  I  am  a  collector  of  beautiful  things, 
an  artist,  and  this  basket  is,  by  your  own  admis- 
sion, a  treasure."  He  bowed,  and  made  a  step 
to  pass  politely.  But  Manuelo  laid  a  desperate 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Senor,"  said  he, "  would  no  price  tempt  you  ? 
Would  you  not  sell  it  even  for  a  large,  a  very 
large  price  ?  " 

The  stranger  smiled.  "  Why,"  said  he,  "  I 
don't  say  that.  I  dare  say  I  might  if  the  price 
were  large  enough ;  I  am  by  no  means  a  mil- 
lionnaire." 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  253 

Manuelo  drew  himself  up.  "  Senor,"  said  he, 
calmly,  "  I  offer  you  twenty-five  dollars." 

The  stranger  started,  and  his  eyes  grew  kindly, 
almost  compassionate  in  their  gaze.  "  My  poor 
boy,"  said  he,  gently,  "  I  could  not  take  it  — 
from  you." 

Manuelo'shead  began  to  go  round  and  round. 

"  Senor,"  said  he,  desperately,  "you  must  — 
you  will !  It  is  not  from  me ;  it  is  —  it  is  from 
a  rich  old  Englishman,  a  madman  for  baskets. 
He  will  pay  any  price  ;  he  cares  not  what  they 
cost  him,  and  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  this. 
Twenty-five  dollars  is  nothing  to  him  —  nothing, 
senor !  Look  !  "  He  plunged  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  brought  it  out  full  of  loose  gold  and 
silver.  "  This  is  all  his,  you  may  suppose,  senor 
—  it  is  not  mine  !  But  the  basket  —  I  pledged 
myself.  You  will  sell  it,  sefior  ?  —  for  the  love 
of  God !  There  are  reasons  !  —  senor ! " 

He  stopped,  and  hung  with  all  his  soul  upon 
the  moment's  pause.  A  wild  notion  of  offering 
to  throw  in  Lolita,  too,  flashed  across  him,  but 
he  felt  its  untenableness  in  conjunction  with  the 
Englishman. 

Meanwhile  the  stranger  looked  doubtfully 
from  Manuelo  to  the  basket.  "  There  is  some- 


254          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

thing  which  strikes  me  as  odd  about  this 
transaction,"  he  thought  to  himself,  quizzi- 
cally, profoundly  puzzled.  "  I  am  a  tender- 
foot, and,  possibly,  this  is  one  of  the  customs 
of  this  singular  country.  Still,  to  keep  a 
mounted  Mexican  curio-hunter  scouting  about 
the  country  with  unlimited  credit  —  no,  cash  — 
seems  to  me  an  unique  luxury,  even  for  a  wealthy 
'  Inglese.'  However,"  he  added  to  himself,  tol- 
erantly, "  that 's  none  of  my  business,  is  it  ?  and 
the  boy's  pride  is  evidently  on  the  gut  five  to 
secure  this  treasure.  Shall  I  let  him  have  it  ? 
He  certainly  would  n't  own  that  cash,  or  be  so 
free  with  it  if  he  did.  No  doubt  he  gets  his 
little  profit  from  it,  so  why  should  I  scruple  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  at  last,  aloud,  "  since 
you  and  your  Englishman  are  in  the  majority, 
I  will  part  with  the  basket  —  at  that  figure." 

"  Sefior !  mille  gracias  !  "  Gratitude,  the  most 
fervent  and  genuine  gratitude  spoke  in  the  tones, 
and  the  eloquent  dark  eyes. 

"  Decidedly,"     thought     the     sefior,      "  this 


passes 


i » 


Manuelo  counted  out  the  twenty-five  dollars, 
and  offered  it  to  the  stranger,  who  was  slow  to 
take  it 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  255 

"  You  are  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  you  do  not 
repent;  that  you  are  not  exceeding  your  En- 
glishman's authority?" 

"  Senor  —  sure  !  " 

The  stranger  unslung  the  basket  and  handed 
it  to  Manuelo.  "  Adios,  my  friend,"  said  he, 
kindly.  "  I  yield  to  you  more  than  to  the 
Englishman's  dollars." 

Manuelo  removed  his  sombrero,  and  stepped 
aside  to  clear  the  path.  Under  one  arm  he 
clasped  the  basket. 

"  Adios,  senor,"  said  he,  courteously,  his  dark 
eyes  lit  with  joy,  his  whole  face  beaming. 

With  a  parting  smile  the  stranger  disappeared 
down  the  winding  path,  while  Manuelo,  his  heart 
singing  within  him,  leading  Lolita  and  bearing 
the  basket,  went  slowly  up  the  mountain  trail. 

Three  days  afterward  he  entered  the  town  of 
San  Miguel,  dusty,  travel-stained,  and  penni- 
less, but  with  his  mission  accomplished.  He 
brought  with  him  the  basket  of  Anita. 

He  did  not  go  at  once  to  Las  Delicias.  Be- 
ing a  lover,  he  was  fastidious.  Being  a  Span- 
iard, he  was  something  of  a  poet ;  and  both 
the  lover  and  the  poet  in  him  dictated  that  a 
victor  should  go  not  unadorned,  bearing  his 


256          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

spoils  unto  his  lady.  So  he  went  straight  to 
the  hut  of  old  Pedro. 

Pedro  was  out,  which  was  an  agreeable 
omen  at  the  outset.  Having  watered,  fed,  and 
groomed  Lolita,  Manuelo  entered  the  little 
hut,  washed  away  the  dust  of  his  six  days' 
ride,  donned  his  fiesta  suit,  knotted  the  gayest 
kerchief  about  his  beautiful  throat,  and  emerged 
as  gallant  a  cavalier  as  heart  could  wish. 

Only  he  missed  the  guitar.  But  before  his 
eyes  stood  the  basket.  Smiling  he  caught  it 
up,  and  with  the  lightest  heart  resaddled  the 
refreshed  Lolita,  and  rode  straight  to  Las 
Delicias. 

It  was  evening.  A  superb  southern  moon 
flooded  the  quiet  town  with  such  light  as  one 
must  go  to  California  even  to  imagine.  The 
wide  casements  and  windows  at  Las  Delicias 
all  stood  open,  but  there  was  no  one  on  the 
porch  when  Manuelo  made  his  way  up  the  path 
with  the  basket  in  his  hands.  He  looked  inside. 
Still  no  one.  Perhaps,  thought  Manuelo,  they 
had  strolled  into  the  grove.  He  stood  a  mo- 
ment, irresolute,  beside  the  clump  of  over- 
reaching laurestinas,  when  all  at  once  voices 
came  to  him,  drifting  across  the  still  air  from 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  257 

the  lime-walks  on  the  left;  and  at  the  same 
moment  they  —  the  voices  —  emerged  into  the 
moonlit  space  beyond.  The  mysterious  silver 
glow  made  them  visible  like  figures  in  a  dream. 
Manuelo,  sunk  in  the  shadow,  was  in  another 
world. 

Elsa's  white  dress  brushed  her  companion 
—  why  not,  since  his  arm  was  about  her  ?  — 
and  her  sweet  eyes  were  raised  with  infinite 
contentment  to  the  strong,  loving  ones  looking 
down  at  her. 

"  And  so,"  said  she,  "  all  the  time  I  have 
been  hard  at  work  for  you ;  and  while  you 
were  tramping  about  in  search  of  beautiful 
scenes,  I  was  hoarding  beautiful  things  for 
you.  There  will  be  enough  to  fill  the  studio." 

"  All  of  which,"  answered  the  mellow  voice, 
"  was  very  naughty  of  you,  my  sweetheart ! 
You  were  to  do  nothing  but  get  well  and  strong 
for  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  did  that  too!"  answered  Elsa, 
lightly.  "  So  well  and  strong,  all  the  time  I 
was  riding  and  climbing,  and  hunting  up  treas- 
ures. Only  ask  Manuelo." 

"And  who  is  Manuelo  ?  " 

"  Manuelo  is  —  Manuelo  !  My  devoted  cava- 
17 


258           The  Basket  of  Anita. 

Her,  the  dearest  and  most  delightful  fellow!  He 
has  been  better  than  the  sun  and  air  to  me ; 
and,  dear,  you  will  not  mind  that  I  —  gave  him 
—  my  picture  ?  Aunt  Mary  said,  under  the 
circumstances  it  was  quite  right.  If  I  had  not 
been  betrothed,  of  course,  I  would  not  have 
done  it.  You  are  not  displeased  ?  " 

"  Displeased  !  —  my  beloved  !  Wait  and  see 
how  I  shall  thank  him  for  being  good  to  you  ! " 

"  He  has  deserted  us  for  some  days,  —  orange- 
picking,  I  suppose,  —  but  you  will  see  that  he 
never  forgets  me ;  I  am  sure  he  will  bring  me 
a  basket  when  he  comes." 

"  Then,"  said  the  mellow  voice,  between 
mirth  and  regret,  "  I  have  lost  my  only  chance 
of  outrivalling  him  in  his  own  line.  You  should 
have  seen  the  basket  I  let  slip  through  my  hands 
the  other  day,  Elsa ! " 

"  Oh,  Robert .'  but  why  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  had  purchased  it  against  my  con- 
science, to  begin  with,  at  the  rate  of  fifteen 
dollars;  and  it  was  a  mighty  one,  a  regular 
elephant  for  a  poor  pedestrian  who  was  fool- 
ishly impatient  to  catch  a  certain  train,  in 
order  to  reach  a  certain  little  sweetheart  of  his  ! 
However,"  lightly,  "I  dare  say  I  should  have 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  259 

hung  on  to  the  basket  in  spite  of  qualms  of 
conscience  and  legs,  had  I  not  encountered  a 
basket-hunter  who  was  madder  than  I,  and  who 
offered  me  the  pretty  sum  of  twenty-five  dollars 
for  it." 

"  And  you  let  it  go  —  oh !  " 

"Well,  my  darling,  he  did  want  it  so  very 
badly;  and  what  right  had  an  impecunious 
artist  to  luxuries  of  that  market-value?  And 
then  I  did  not  know  you  were  smitten  with  the 
basket  craze,  sweetheart,  or  I  would  have  kept 
the  basket,  and  gone  without  —  say,  coal." 

But  this  mild  sarcasm  was  thrown  away. 
Elsa,  the  basket-bewitched,  was  dreaming  of 
the  lost  one. 

"  What  was  it  like  ?  "  was  her  meditative  and 
irrelevant  reply. 

"  Well,"  resignedly,  "  its  majesty  would  stand, 
I  think,  about  three  feet  high.  It  was  very 
quaintly  shaped.  It  was  the  finest  I  ever  have 
seen.  There  was  a  beguiling,  mellow-brown 
tone  to  the  whole,  which  attested  its  honorable 
age,  and  a  most  seductive  pattern  climbing 
about  its  sides.  But  there  was  something  more, 
—  a  gleam  of  scarlet  about  it  which  gave  it 
character." 


260          The  Basket  of  Anita. 

Elsa  clasped  her  hands.  "And  you  —  sold 
it !  How  could  you  ?  Why,  it  is  like  the  basket 
of  Anita!" 

"  Now,  who  in  the  name  of  reason  is  Anita? 
Another  of  your  attendant  sprites  ?  " 

"Anita  is  a  mythical  old  woman  who  lives 
on  a  mythical  hill,  and  nurses  a  mythical  basket, 
visible  only  to  the  eyes  of  Manuelo,  —  and 
whose  Doppelganger  you  sol  —  " 

"  Sweetheart !  " 

Two  transfigured  faces  were  uplifted  in  the 
moonlight,  and  two  pairs  of  lips  melted  together. 

Perfectly  unobserved,  a  shadow  melted  into 
the  shadows  down  the  road.  Unobserved, 
Manuelo  led  Lolita  out  into  the  road  and 
leaped  upon  her  back.  He  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, —  only  a  moment,  —  then  he  turned  her 
head  away  from  the  old  mission  and  Pedro, 
and  galloped  straight  into  the  open  country, 
toward  the  mines  of  Esperanza. 

It  was  only  an  hour  later  that  Elsa,  running 
up  the  steps  with  happy,  unseeing  eyes,  stum- 
bled over  something,  tripped,  and  would  have 
fallen  headlong,  but  for  the  arms  about  her. 

"  Why  !  what  was  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Elsa. 

Her  lover  stooped,  fumbled  in  the  uncertain 


The  Basket  of  Anita.  261 

dusk  until  his  hand  encountered  the  object; 
then  he  held  it  up  in  the  moonlight. 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  both,  then 
silence. 

They  had  recognized,  at  the  same  moment, 
the  upturned  photograph  in  its  depth,  and  the 
scarlet  gleam  of  woodpecker's  feathers  about 
its  rim. 

It  was  the  basket  of  Anita. 


THE  PRINTING  WAS  DONE  AT 
THE  LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO, 
FOR  STONE  *  KIMBALL,  PUB- 
LISHERS. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  040  096     0 


y.'^ji^ 


